


the souls of the lost weren't really alone

by DeyaAmaya, NachtGraves



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternative Universe - FBI, Canon-Typical Violence, Hopeful Ending, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Neil is a Hatford, Paranormal, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Slavery, Supernatural Elements, angel!jeremy, gargoyle!jean, partially a song fic but it's a children's book, slight body horror, supernatural fbi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26375767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeyaAmaya/pseuds/DeyaAmaya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachtGraves/pseuds/NachtGraves
Summary: In a joint-op with the infamous Charleston field office known as Foxhole, Special Agent Jeremy Knox and his partner Alvarez travel to South Carolina to investigate the highly exclusive illegal supernatural fight rings catering to the mundane elite run by Riko Moriyama.As Foxhole readies to catch the notorious vampire and leader to the expansive crime family's U.S. branch, Jeremy can't afford distractions. But when trying to clear his head one night, a man with desolate gray eyes won't leave his thoughts.
Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36
Collections: AFTG Big Bang 2020





	the souls of the lost weren't really alone

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh! This was a time to write during quite the time itself.
> 
> Title and some sections of the fic are from Dav Pilkey's _God Bless the Gargoyles_ which was the inspiration for this fic/au. I've been thinking about it for a while now and got it done.
> 
> Deya did some AMAZING art I've embedded here but also show her some love and support [here](https://andreil-minyasten.tumblr.com/post/629794105468370945/)!  
> Thank you Fliss for beta-ing; Emma for help with the French; and Nikos, gluupor, and Leah, for hosting/modding!  
> And thank you for reading!

* * *

_. . . their stony old hearts became crumbled and broken.  
Then storms rumbled in, and their eyes filled with rain,  
and in stillness they stayed, alone and in pain._

_(Pilkey, 18-20)_

* * *

Jeremy walks through the thick black velvet curtain and takes a moment to adjust to the light. Behind him, Alvarez whistles low. Jeremy simply nods, knowing what’s going through her mind. They weren’t coming in completely blind, but one wouldn’t expect an expensive looking lounge to reside in the basement of a long defunct metalwork factory. A basement that doesn’t officially exist in any known blueprints, public or private. Foxhole’s tech expert hadn’t found a single reference to the space and he’s one of, if not the, best hackers in the country.

The secret lounge wouldn’t look out of place in a five star hotel with its high ceiling and expensive seating. The bar at the far end is stocked with high-end liquor and the people mingling about are in designer brands suited for galas and red carpet premieres—even the requisite black masks with red lining that cover everything above one’s mouth don’t seem out of place. Jazz music plays through hidden speakers and there’s even well-maintained potted plants by couches and tables. All the place is missing are floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s easy to forget that they’re at least two floors underground.

Jeremy holds back a grimace as he and Alvarez weave their way through the crowd, heading in a winding path to the bar. He orders a whiskey for himself and a glass of red for Alvarez that will go undrunk, simply accessories for their cover. Not having something in their hands would look entirely out of place amongst the high-profile patrons trading cash for any number of things Jeremy could arrest them for on sight. If he wouldn’t immediately be shot down and his death covered up.

They’d secured an invitation and the masks through a CI at Foxhole, South Carolina’s Supernatural Crimes Division field office, but the rest is up to Jeremy and Alvarez while they’re still unknown. They’d been called down from California to work with Foxhole as a favor—Assistant Director Wymack and Jeremy and Alvarez’s AD Rheman friends from ‘back in the day’—but it won’t be long before they, like the Foxhole agents, will be recognized and their movements just as limited. Foxhole has been working on a case against the Moriyamas, particularly Tetsuji and Riko Moriyama, for the past few years. From what Jeremy’s gathered, Wymack’s long lost son and their CI are a part of it all in some way.

They’re quickly served and take their drinks with them as they look for somewhere to sit as a pretense to canvas the area. The floor they’re on appears to be mezzanine with a balcony at the center of the room. Most of the patrons are gathered around the railing. Jeremy and Alvarez claim a free high table nearby partially obscured by a tall leafy plant. They both discretely pour some of their drinks into the soil.

Alvarez checks the watch on Jeremy’s wrist. “We’ve got twenty minutes until it’s supposed to start.”

Jeremy leans against the polished countertop and adjusts his mask. “Only the one exit, so far, but betting there’s at least two hidden ones for quick exits, and I’m going to guess that the bartender can do more than mix drinks. So with the two upstairs and the two at the elevator, five of them.”

“That aren’t wearing the same costume we are.” Alvarez plays with her glass on the table and leans forward. “Incoming.”

Jeremy looks over his shoulder at the approaching couple–a man and woman. The woman leads the way with a full glass of red wine and the man holds a glass of straight whiskey close to his chest, following morosely. Jeremy tips his head in greeting and Alvarez raises her glass.

“Mind if we join you?” the woman asks, but she’s already setting her glass and gold and white leather brand clutch on the table.

Nevertheless, Jeremy politely replies, “Not at all,” and welcomes them. As the couple settle themselves at the table, Jeremy gives them space and moves next to Alvarez. Alvarez slides her arm through the crook of Jeremy’s elbow.

“I don’t think we’ve seen you here before,” the woman says. Considering everyone is wearing the same mask, Jeremy isn’t sure how the woman can tell for sure unless she’s very good at identifying people solely by their mouths and chin. Jeremy and Alvarez do appear to be younger than the majority of attendees, however; botox and dye jobs appear to be the norm from what he’s observed. The woman’s brightly painted lips seem fixed at a perpetual pout and what he can see of the man’s face is unnaturally void of wrinkles for someone that Jeremy would guess is in their fifties, maybe even sixties.

“It’s our first time,” Alvarez replies, affecting excitement. “I’ve been dying to come for ages and my darling”—she leans into Jeremy and looks up at him, hugging his arm—“finally managed to get us an invite. And just in time before we leave for our second honeymoon!”

Jeremy ducks his head to kiss Alvarez’s bottle blond wig. “Anything for you, honey.” Their covers are the recently married, nouveau riche Jacobs. Martin Jacobs gambled well with investments and Marisole Jacobs lived in borrowed excess even before she came into a hefty inheritance.

The woman coos. “Oh, young love. Remember when you were like this, Harold?”

Harold nods along and gulps down his drink. He looks at Jeremy across the table with a wry smile and Jeremy does his best to share the commiserating look.

Harold’s wife, who introduces herself as Katherine-with-a-K, monopolizes the conversation, which is perfectly fine with Jeremy. She easily takes on the role of hostess, as if she were the one organizing the event as it were. She briefly tells them how the fights work before regaling them with accounts of her favorite matches, her favored fighters, what she most looks forward to each night. Jeremy nods along and Alvarez fixes a smile on her mouth that she perfected waitressing at ritzy restaurants through high school and college, encouraging Katherine-with-a-K to continue. Harold steadily finishes his drink and excuses himself for a refill. Katherine pauses only long enough to tell him to get her another glass of wine. She still has some left in her current glass, and in Jeremy’s opinion both should consider taking it easy with their intake.

Harold says a practiced-until-worn-and-threadbare ‘ _yes, dear’_. He’s already turning to leave but as if only just remembering Jeremy and Alvarez, pauses momentarily to invite Jeremy along.

Jeremy swishes his half-filled glass. “I’m a lightweight,” he says with just the right amount of wry self-deprecation. Harold doesn’t try to change Jeremy’s mind, all but running to the bar for more liquor.

Maybe Jeremy should have gone over, seen what he could learn from Harold and the other men at the bar without drawing the bartender’s attention. But Jeremy and Alvarez are in a mass of unknowns with no backup and no communication to the outside. He’s not going to leave Alvarez’s side unless absolutely necessary.

As it turns out, Harold doesn’t come back. Instead, he starts chatting with other men who have either abandoned or escaped their wives for the bar and all the scotch they can drink. Katherine doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, doesn’t care. She’s more than happy to hear her own voice and act as the authority on the event.

“They don’t happen all that often, do they?” Alvarez asks after Katherine talks about the last fight, which had been nearly a month ago.

“Unfortunately.” Katherine sighs. “It’s supposed to be because this is, you know, _illegal,_ ” she lowers her voice to a giggly whisper like a kid who says a bad word for the first time. She clears her throat and resumes speaking normally, “But really. Now, I love a little secret and mystery, especially being a part of it all as I always am, but it can be a little too cloak and dagger. It makes the men feel important though.” She laughs, glancing at Jeremy before winking at Alvarez, as if she and Alvarez are sharing some inside joke that Jeremy isn’t privy to, nor would understand if they deigned to fill him in.

If only she knew that Alvarez is gay as gay could be and thoroughly and completely in love with her soon-to-be fiancée. It better be soon-to-be, at least. She bought the ring months ago after enlisting Jeremy to figure out Laila’s ring size. And Jeremy’s tired of pretending not to know anything when Laila grows suspicious and definitely knows that both her girlfriend and best friend are hiding something. Something that’s even harder to hide when they all work together on the same team. While Jeremy and Alvarez are on the east coast, Jeremy’s got a bit of a break in dodging Laila’s inquisitive eyes.

Katherine starts talking about her favorite races to see fight, diminishing the people to nothing more than specifications as if they were cars or the like. Inanimate objects. Not living people who are indentured to the Moriyamas for a variety of twisted, barely-legal reasons.

“There was an angel once,” Katherine says. “Only ever had one match. He did so incredibly poorly I haven’t seen or heard of him after his debut. He didn’t even do any of that flashy magic thing that kind does, and his wings weren’t like in movies or paintings. He didn’t even try to fly! Very disappointing.”

Jeremy’s own wings itch under his skin aching to rip out from his shoulder blades, blood and bone and feathers, in avenging fury. _Disappointing? I can show you that ‘flashy magic thing’ and it’ll be the last thing you’ll ever see, the only thing you’ll remember if your mind doesn’t completely dissolve._

Alvarez steps on his foot under the table. Without batting an eye, she directs Katherine’s attention to her emptied wine glass. “Oh, you’re out. And Harold hasn’t returned.”

“My, you’re right. Where is Harold with my wine?” Katherine turns around and huffs. Harold is lighting a cigar at the bar with three other men, passing the lighter to one who pockets the device once he’s done with it. “Men. If they aren’t useless already, they become even more so a few years into marriage. You two enjoy yourselves.” Without waiting for a reply, she takes her clutch and goes after her husband, leaving her empty glass behind.

There’s some sort of burn mark where Jeremy had been resting his hand, so he moves Katherine’s abandoned wine glass over the black smudge. Jeremy’s far from being a violent person—and that has nothing to do with his race, contrary to popular belief amongst the more ignorant of the non-supernatural—but there is only so much he can bear to hear or witness, even in his line of work.

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, once Katherine is out of earshot, stumbling her way to her husband and the bar.

“I’m going to take immense pleasure when we round her up once we get what we need.” Alvarez’s smile is on this side of being sharp enough to cut diamond.

The lounge’s lights dim and the jazz music fades into excited chatter. Jeremy forcibly relaxes his body even though his nerves are taut and alert. Alvarez smooths down her dress and steps away from the table. “Looks like it’s time.”

They leave their untouched drinks behind and follow the crowd gathering around the balcony at the center of the room.

Arm in arm, the two find a spot along the balcony, ending up towards one end as most congregate as close to the middle as they can, and look down to the brightly lit room below. The room is the size of the balcony—the walls coming up to the polished railing—400 square feet, give or take, about the size of a standard boxing ring. The walls and floor are painted white, some spots brighter as if they were newly painted over. On either side are metal doors that Jeremy would bet are remotely controlled with encryptions and codes and whatever else to make escape impossible, and are thick enough to hold their own against any enhanced abilities or powers. It resembles a containment room that the Supernatural Crimes Division uses, the only difference being the thick glass ceiling to allow an audience to watch comfortably from above.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin in just a few moments,” comes a voice from the overhead speakers. It sounds like the bartender—Jeremy casts a glance back to the bar and isn’t surprised to see the man is absent. “On behalf of our host, I would like to thank you for your continued patronage. For tonight’s match, we have the return of a fan favorite and one of our longest fighters. Enjoy the show.”

Almost immediately, a buzzer rings and the door farthest from Jeremy and Alvarez and slowly slides open. Only once it’s fully open, revealing nothing but a dark, featureless tunnel, does a shadow move. A werewolf in partial shift, more wolf than human, walks out. Her fur is matted and dirty, and there are dark bloodstains on her torn and ragged clothes. Her hands and legs look painfully caught in the stature of a human but with the limbs of a wolf. Her face is the most human-looking thing about her, but even then, her teeth are too long, canines coming past her snarling lips. The crowd cheers her entrance, clapping when she howls: a dissonant sound both, and yet neither, wolf or human.

A second buzzer rings and Jeremy casts his gaze to the remaining door below as it slides open. There’s a pause where nothing happens. No one comes out of the shadows. The audience starts whispering. But then there’s a grunt of pain, muffled orders being barked, and a figure is pushed out of the door, limping, favoring their right leg. It takes Jeremy a moment to place what race the person, the man, is. Clawed hands and feet, two pointed horns peeking through roughly cut hair, a whip-like tail. The telling feature is the fact that the man, barring his clothes and ashen black hair, is stone gray from horn to toe. A gargoyle.

Jeremy’s met a far and wide range of the supernatural due to his work, between coworkers and investigations, but gargoyles are an illusive race. He’s never met a gargoyle. At least as far as he knows. Chances are, Jeremy has but not known it—most hide their race and pass for human. Like with any group, there’s a social ladder, and gargoyles are very nearly at the bottom for whatever illogical or irrational reason dreamt up by those that put themselves on top. Jeremy’s kind was—and in certain unsavory circles, still are—among them, to his embarrassment.

The gargoyle straightens up, but it’s clear to anyone watching that he is not okay. Not that anyone would be okay being forced into this archaic form of slavery and forced bloodsport. He’s still got bandages peeking through the tears in his shirt—bandages that have long needed to be discarded and replaced. And with the way he’s holding himself, he needs to get his leg x-rayed.

There’s no bell or count down, no announcement—at least none that Jeremy can hear— but one moment the two fighters are eyeing each other, the werewolf with blood lust and the gargoyle hunched protectively, and the next the werewolf suddenly charges.

The gargoyle ducks to the side, avoids the werewolf’s snapping teeth and rakes his clawed hands down the werewolf’s back. The utter whiteness of the room makes the drawn blood stark, so red it almost looks fake, like this is all an act. Jeremy wishes it was.

The werewolf snarls in pain and whips around, clawing at the gargoyle. The gargoyle jumps back, taking a few steps to create distance, arms raised to his chest. He’s hunched in on himself, even his wings are folded in like shields, his tail tense and close to his back.

The fight is mostly one-sided: the werewolf constantly on the offensive with slashing claws, jabbing fists, snapping teeth; the gargoyle cautious, defensive. He only attacks in the brief seconds that the werewolf’s guard is down after an attack. He favors his right leg, doesn’t move unless he has to.

The crowd grows bored and hurls insults, demands for more. The werewolf’s temper has steadily been growing with each attack the gargoyle dodges and each blow he manages to deliver. She charges him, but he ducks to the side and uses his tail to trip her. She goes careening into the wall, face first. Jeremy hopes she’s been knocked out. No such luck.

She pushes off the wall, leaving a smear of red against the sheen of white paint, and turns on the gargoyle, unbridled rage directed at the gargoyle carved into her bloodied face. She goes into a crawl before pushing off the floor in a powerful, inhumanly fast leap, clawed hand swiping in a downward arch.

The gargoyle has no time to dodge, especially with an injured leg. He brings his arms up and his wings draw as far around him as they can to protect his face from the werewolf’s claws. Her claws scrape against the gargoyle’s stone-hard skin but the force pushes the gargoyle back. He stumbles, tries to keep upright, but his injured leg can’t support his weight and he falls. The crowd laughs, cheers, calls for a decisive victory. The werewolf stalks over to the gargoyle, her mid-shifted face set in a predatory grin, all teeth and drool and blood.

Jeremy’s grip tightens painfully on the railing. He feels sick at the callous laughter, the bloodthirsty cheering, the apathetic comments. Nausea and disgust feed his anger, quickly burning into rage.

Alvarez squeezes his arm. “I know,” she whispers by his ear, soft and gentling, but her clenched fist hidden in the crook of Jeremy’s arm betrays her own anger. “But we can’t.”

It takes concentrated effort to ease his white-knuckle grip from the railing but he can’t shake the tense set of his jaw. These fights aren’t advertised as battles to the death—Katherine had said she’d never seen anyone killed. But that doesn’t mean some of the fighters don’t go too far or that injuries aren’t tended to in time or to a proper degree.

Jeremy looks at the gargoyle, sprawled on the floor. Wills him to get up, for the fight to be called off. Time seems to slow with how tense he is, how anxious and powerless he feels, unable to do anything, to be a bystander when he _could_ do something.

The werewolf reaches the gargoyle and, while he tries to brace himself with his arms, the werewolf kicks him. She rains blows against him as he curls against the floor, the crowd yells at him to get up, for the werewolf to finish him. Jeremy’s blood burns under his skin.

One decisive kick sends the gargoyle tumbling back several feet, blood streaking in his wake like paint from a dry brush stroke. His eyes are closed, he doesn’t get up. Jeremy’s heart thuds painfully in his chest.

The werewolf tilts her head back and roars in victory, the crowd cheers around them. Jeremy only has eyes for the gargoyle. _I’m sorry._

As the thought crosses his mind, as if he had heard, the gargoyle’s eyes open and Jeremy’s caught in a gaze of gray disrupted by the fall of matted, black hair. Even 20 feet between them, Jeremy’s astounded by the color of the gargoyle’s eyes; his irises look to be made of stone instead of like or as if.

But astonishment is only second to the relief that eases Jeremy’s breathing, even as pain lances through his heart at the dead resignation glazing the gargoyle’s eyes. Jeremy doesn’t know what his face is broadcasting, certainly nothing like that of the people around him that he can’t bring himself to imitate, even though his cover would be blown immediately if one of the Moriyamas’ men were watching him. The gargoyle might not immediately guess that Jeremy’s an undercover federal officer, but something changes in his expression as he holds Jeremy’s gaze. Confusion softens resignation, and that only hurts and enrages Jeremy more—that compassion is so absent from the faces the gargoyle sees, that the man is so used to the sociopathic glee of the Katherines and Harolds with their expensive liquor and gowns and suits.

Looking into the gargoyle’s eyes, Jeremy promises with words he can’t say out loud: _We’ll stop this. Please survive for a little longer._

The gargoyle closes his eyes and Jeremy’s brought back to the rest of the world. The bartender’s voice sounds through the overhead speakers though Jeremy can’t figure out what he’s saying. The crowd’s beginning to disperse, talking amongst themselves, heading back to the bar for more drinks. The werewolf’s walking back to the door she’d entered from that had slid open at some point. Jeremy casts one last look at the gargoyle, who struggles to his feet and limps his way to his door. Alvarez pulls him away by their linked arms.

“Please tell me we can leave soon,” she says by his shoulder.

“One drink and some mingling,” Jeremy replies, even though he doesn’t want to stay a single second more. They go to the bar and get whiskey and wine, but Alvarez swallows down a quarter of her glass upon receiving it. Her gaze is challenging when she sees Jeremy watching her and Jeremy responds by taking a healthy swallow of his whiskey, feeling it burn all the way down. They both needed it.

They mingle at the bar, mostly listening. Jeremy is attentive to when people start making their way to the elevator, and when the flow of the room is headed that way, he and Alvarez say their goodbyes and desires to make it to another fight with pasted-on smiles.

They’re led out and brought their car, and Jeremy slips into the driver’s seat. The whiskey he’d had was already burning out of his system—a curse and benefit, depending on the situation, of his angel genetics. Jeremy drives straight to a ritzy apartment building fitting for Martin and Marisole Jacobs, who owned a unit on the seventh floor that is completely out of the SCD’s budget, but not Agent Reynolds’. Jeremy drives into the underground parking, and upon getting out, sees two people waiting for them: Agents Seth Gordon and Renee Walker. Gordon has a large bag slung over his shoulder and a scanner in hand. He quickly scans Jeremy and Alvarez, and when there’s no reaction, jerks his head towards Walker and goes straight to the car, plopping down on the floor and getting to work checking the car over for bugs. Walker beckons Jeremy and Alvarez over and they follow until they’re a good thirty feet from the car.

“Nicky’s a block down and will drive you to your apartment. Debrief’s at Foxhole first thing tomorrow morning. Alison’s already dropped off a rental for you to use while you’re here,” she says. “Get some rest, I’ll be here with Seth until he’s done.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow,” Jeremy says.

They find Klose and he fills the car ride with cheerful chatter unrelated to work—mostly about his husband Erik, an Interpol agent based in Berlin—and Jeremy’s grateful for it as exhaustion leadens his bones and his thoughts revolve around deadened stone eyes.

###

The debrief at Foxhole is detailed. Alvarez and Jeremy run through everything, starting from their arrival to the factory and being escorted by masked men in suits.

“They were supernatural, some type that has night vision,” Alvarez says as she recounts being led through the factory in complete darkness. It had been a tense ten minutes of walking until they were told to get inside an elevator, that was thankfully lit, and to press the only available button inside, which took them to the viewing lounge. Jeremy had tried listening for anything other than his heartbeat and the click of Alvarez’s heels, but there was nothing to note.

“Vampires or demons from a subordinate group, probably,” says Special-Agent-in-Charge Dan Wilds. She’s a bit of a legend, though most everyone at Foxhole is a bit of a legend in both law enforcement and criminal circles. Foxhole’s infamy lies in the history of its agents. None of them should have even qualified for the agency on account of their criminal histories alone, but Assistant Director Wymack swung it somehow, though he’s on a very thin rope with the higher ups.

“Vampires,” says Special Agent Kevin Day, decisively. Of all the agents at Foxhole, Day is the only one Jeremy has actually met and spoken with in person prior to this investigation. Day was usually the representative Foxhole sent to conferences and inter-agency events, much like how Jeremy was the L.A. field office’s designated public face in recent years. Day had been top of his class in the academy and scouted by nearly every branch. No one was surprised he chose the SCD—it was his mother’s legacy after all—but why he’d chosen Foxhole instead of the field office in Los Angeles, New York, D. C., or New Orleans, the well-respected and most sought after positions, is anyone’s guess. “Riko has certain viewpoints that differ from his brother and father.”

“He’s an elitist, racist asshole, basically,” Abram cuts in dryly, startling Jeremy. He’d almost forgotten the man was there he’s so quiet. He’s far from plain though, fiery red hair, piercing blue eyes, and covered in scars. The man’s gorgeous, really, but there’s an undercurrent about him that has Jeremy instinctively cautious. The single name was all the redhead had given during the quick introductions when Jeremy and Alvarez had arrived at Foxhole. All Jeremy knows is that Abram is a high-profile criminal informant. He’s the one who got them their big lead in their investigation into the illegal fight rings.

Day sighs but doesn’t correct him and instead motions for Jeremy and Alvarez to continue going over the previous night. When they finish, Wymack transitions into recapping what Foxhole’s gathered and done so far, catching Jeremy and Alvarez up. It’s a lot of information, lots of thick files full of years of seemingly unrelated cases with highlights and scrawled notes that piece together a portion of a larger puzzle. Foxhole’s been busy. There’s another stack of files, though these are absent of any federal insignia, and when Abram takes over, it becomes clear that they’re from whatever organization he’s from.

A majority of Abram’s files center around the groups on the Moriyama payroll. Jeremy’s surprised by some of them; known gangs and key figures in organized crime on the agency’s watch-list that he never would have guessed answered to someone else, much less did their dirty work. The majority are East Coast–based, concentrated in the southern states, but there are some slippery players in New York, and some stretched fingers into a few pies in Colorado, Texas, and even Nevada. They haven’t broken into California, which is a relief, or at least Abram and Foxhole hadn’t found any connections yet. Jeremy had no idea the Moriyamas had such a wide reach.

He skims through the profiles but backtracks, double-checking, when he comes across a picture of Abram, only registering the photo after having turned to the next profile. As he takes a closer look, it’s clearly not Abram, but they have to be direct relatives they look so alike. The name on the profile is Nathan Wesninski and Jeremy’s eyes widen in recognition. Nathan Wesninski, more widely known as the Butcher of Baltimore, is high on the SCD’s watch-list, but the man, a literal demon, has never so much as been held for more than an hour on a minor charge or well-placed, but legally-lacking, suspicion.

Jeremy sneaks a glance towards Abram, but the informant catches him. His blue eyes, a perfect match to Wesninski’s photo, land on the page Jeremy’s on and a razor sharp smile cuts across his face.

“Didn’t have much choice in some of the things I inherited,” he says. His tone implies that that’s all he’s going to say on the matter but his eyes flash, daring Jeremy to speak up. Jeremy doesn’t take the challenge; it’s none of his business. He simply flips the page and continues reading through Abram’s files.

There is a lot to go over—years’ worth—and Jeremy and Alvarez have only had a day. They don’t even break for lunch—in fact, Jeremy loses track of time and doesn’t realize until Foxhole's doctor comes into the conference room with boxes of pizza. Behind her is Dr. Aaron Minyard—like Laila, the team’s Special Agent Medic—equally broody as his identical twin, Special Agent Andrew Minyard. The only way Jeremy’s been able to tell them apart is Minyard’s black arm guards and the smell of tobacco if Minyard’s recently lit a cigarette. Having learned that Klose was the twins’ cousin, Jeremy had grown curious about how they all came together in Foxhole when from what he’s seen of their limited interactions, none of them appeared to be close. The twins barely spoke to one another and in relation to Klose, Dr. Minyard was standoffish and seemed to pretend his cousin didn’t exist unless he had to acknowledge him, and Minyard was downright hostile the one time Jeremy saw the two directly interact.

Dr. Winfield takes charge as she comes in, pushing aside some papers to make space for the pizza boxes. “We have cheese, meat lovers, and veggie supreme,” she announces, and as Dr. Minyard takes out tubs of salad from his plastic bag, continues, “And family-sized caprese, caesar, and macaroni salads.”

“Thanks, Dr. Winfield,” Jeremy says, emphatically grateful as she hands him a large paper plate he immediately fills with two slices of veggie pizza and a modest helping of greens and cherry tomatoes.

“Abby, please,” she insists. “We don’t tend to stand on ceremony here, Special Agent Knox.”

“Then Jeremy’s more than enough for me, Abby,” he returns. She smiles at him and Jeremy thanks her again before moving out of the way and returning to his seat at the conference table to eat while he continues to read. Everyone else does the same, and the only difference from less than ten minutes ago is the occasional sound of munching pizza and crunching salad. At least until Abby stands at the head of the table with her hands on her hips, a disapproving frown on her mouth as she stares down Wymack, who’s busy going over Jeremy and Alvarez’s written reports, done last night and this morning, with a loaded fork left forgotten over his plate.

Abby doesn’t say or do anything as far as Jeremy can see, but Wymack looks up at her. Something passes between them and Wymack says, almost beseechingly, “Abby.”

There is no forthcoming response or reaction from Abby, she simply continues to look down at him, expression relaxed but for the subtle downward curve of her mouth.

Their gazes hold for a moment longer before Wymack breaks, looking away and his shoulder dropping. He puts down the files and clears his throat, addressing the room. “This is a lunch break so _break_ ,” he says, gruff and stern as Jeremy’s learned is his default state, but he spies some of the Foxes holding back grins. “Ten”—Abby places a hand on the back of Wymack’s chair—“Thirty minutes. Get out or stay in here, but no working. I’m getting coffee, don’t need me.”

With that, he pushes out of his chair and grabs his plate, clearly intending on not coming back for a while. Abby walks with him out of the room, saying goodbye with a wave and reminder to walk around and get some fresh air.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Reynolds crows, “Pay up, Seth.”

Gordon grumbles but pulls out his wallet and hands over several bills. “He just had to hold on a little longer.”

Dr. Minyard snorts. “You weren’t even close.”

“Fuck you,” Gordon throws back, but it’s lacking the level of vitriol he usually seemed unable to temper when speaking to people instead of technology.

Dr. Minyard replies, “No thanks,” as if it’s a habit. Then he addresses Wilds. “Abby didn’t say a word.”

“You have inside knowledge on Abby,” Wilds complains, but dutifully hands over Dr. Minyard’s apparent earnings.

Jeremy shares a bemused look with Alvarez.

Walker takes pity on them. “There was a bet on how long Coach could last against Abby. Allison was the closest. Aaron and Dan were the only ones in the pool who bet on what Abby would say.”

Much like Abram, something about her was a little off, but she’s been sweet and openly kind with a sincerity Jeremy doesn’t think is fake. Most of his suspicion comes from the fact that she’s a Foxhole agent and was Minyard’s partner. Had she been any other agent’s partner, much less been in any other field office, Jeremy would never have thought twice about her other than that she looked like she belonged at a Peace & Love or some such rally or a new age meditation retreat rather than a government law enforcement office.

Reynolds chimes in as she counts her winnings. “We bet on anything and everything. There are bets on you two going right now.”

“On what?” Alvarez asks.

“Willing to answer some questions to close some of them?” Reynolds returns. “I have a good amount riding on golden boy.”

Jeremy blinks. What could they possibly have bet on about him?

“Depends.” Alvarez grins. “How much of a cut do we get for spilling?”

Gordon’s brows raise slightly and Wilds and Boyd start laughing. Reynolds purses her lips in interest. “Five percent.”

Immediately, Alvarez counters “Ten.”

Reynolds’ perfectly shaped brows draw together as her eyes narrow and Jeremy thinks maybe Alvarez has gone too far. But then the ex-heiress smirks. “Deal. If L.A. gets boring, Foxhole might take you if you’re ever interested.”

“My girlfriend can’t stand the cold so no-go, but thanks.”

Boyd grumbles and Klose unsubtly pumps his fist. Walker pulls out a notebook and flips through until she stops at a page and makes notes with a pen from the table. Following, Walker asks Alvarez and Jeremy several questions, most of which are regarding their relationship status and sexuality. After Jeremy confirms his bisexuality and Boyd secures the winnings of that particular pool, Walker smiles apologetically before asking if Jeremy had slept with Day when they were in the academy, and Day is more surprised than Jeremy.

Jeremy denies anything happening between them and Day glares at his coworkers. “ _I_ ’ve told you that.”

“C’mon, Kevin, you’re obsessed with the L.A. Angel,” says Klose. It’s been a while since Jeremy’s heard that particular nickname he’d been saddled with since he ended up being the face of the L.A. office for the agency. “So, either you slept together or you wanted to.”

“ _I didn’t!_ ” Day hisses. He’s beet red and his eyes are glowing in the tell-tale way of animal shifters, pupils taking on a distinctly feline appearance—Jeremy had heard rumors back in their academy days that Day was mixed-race in more than just his ethnicity. Kayleigh Day had been near stereotypically Irish—pale and ginger and freckled—but Day’s complexion was markedly darker, matching his mother more in the shape of his features than anything else. It was assumed his father was either non-supernatural or also an angel, some people’s reasoning ignorantly or purposefully callous and bigoted. Apparently, neither was the case.

Before anyone could be maimed or murdered, the conference door swings open with Wymack’s return. He takes in the room, eyes going from Day glaring at Klose, Klose inching behind Boyd, Walker going to calm Day down, Gordon filming with his phone, and everyone else watching with varying degrees of interest. Wymack sighs and closes the door behind him. “Break’s over, back to work. Settle your fights and bets on your own time.”

Day’s still glaring at Klose but he returns to his seat and they all get back to their mountains of files and reports and notes.

By around half past five, they’ve gone through all of Abram’s provided information and Jeremy and Alvarez have been caught up to the last four or so years. Jeremy’s brain is partly-fried, partly-melted, and entirely overloaded. Everyone else appears to be in a similar state. Gordon nods off at one point and Dr. Minyard shakes him awake before he falls out of his chair. When Day interrupts himself in a jaw-cracking yawn, Wymack calls it a day.

“None of you are useful right now. We’ll pick back up tomorrow. There’s chatter about an auction we need to keep an eye on. Now get out.”

No one second guesses or argues and they all pack and clean up. Before they part ways, Walker finishes accounting for the bets cleared during lunch. Once that’s all sorted, and Jeremy and Alvarez have their own tidy sum drawn from the various winnings, goodbyes are said, waved, and implied, and Jeremy is ready to lie down. But before Jeremy can follow Alvarez to their rental, a hand lightly catches his arm, holding him back for a second. He turns around to Day, who immediately lets him go and rubs the back of his neck.

“I just want to clarify so there’s nothing weird,” Day says. “I don’t and have never wanted to sleep with you, just so you know. Nicky is obsessed with sex and since he and Erik have been long-distance for most of their relationship, he’s far too invested in the sex lives of everyone else. And I’m not obsessed with you. I respect and admire you in a completely _platonic_ and _professional_ way. You were great at the academy and you’ve been doing good work in the agency.”

After a stunned second, Jeremy laughs. “Thank you, I appreciate it. But it’s really fine, my team’s the same in terms of gossiping so really, it’s no big deal. I have great respect and admiration for you, too. I was really excited to be able to work with you again. But, I have to admit, I thought about sleeping with you a few times back then.” At Day’s completely shocked, hang-jawed expression, Jeremy pats Day’s shoulder and winks. “You’re hot, Day. See you tomorrow.”

###

As much as he’d been looking forward to lying face first in bed and checking out for the day, not ten minutes after showering, Jeremy’s putting on jeans and a sweatshirt and slipping on his sandals at the front door. Alvarez, already cozied up in a pair of Laila’s sweatpants and one of Jeremy’s old college shirts, is laid out on the couch, eyes closed, the TV playing some reality show at a low volume. Her phone is face down on her stomach, her fingers drumming against it, as she waits for Laila’s call for the day.

“I need to clear my head. I’ll try to be back in two hours, otherwise I’ll text.”

Alvarez gives him a thumbs-up without opening her eyes. “Pick up some Thai for dinner? I’m craving peanut sauce like you wouldn’t believe. Klose mentioned a place.” Klose had emailed them a multi-page PDF listing all the good local food options, with phone numbers and links to websites, menus, and online ordering services if the given place had their own, before they had even left LAX. Places that had delivery were highlighted.

“Sure. See you in a bit. Say hi to Laila for me.” He grabs the keys to the rental and after a moment of consideration grabs a jacket too—South Carolina’s all rain and wind this time of year he’s learned, and the clouds had been ominously heavy for the better part of the day.

###

Jeremy drives to the beach. Blame it on growing up near the beach and never straying too far from sand and salt and sea, but the ocean has always been a source of comfort. When he’s traveling for work, the first thing he does after reading through whatever relevant brief, is look up the nearest patch of water. If he’s not by a coast, he’ll make do with a river or lake, a pond or even a fountain at a local park. The water’s always calmed his mind, helped him think, helped him breathe.

About halfway to the nearest beachfront parking, according to Google Maps, the skies break and Jeremy flips on the wipers as rain splatters against the windshield, building quickly from a gentle drizzle to a thundering torrent the wipers can barely keep up with. He eases up on the pedal and is grateful when he finally arrives at the deserted beach. Parking to face the roiling grey waters, he cuts the engine and leans forward on the wheel, careful not to set off the horn, and stares out ahead. Seeing a beach during a storm is interesting. It doesn’t exactly rain, much less storm, very often back home. Jeremy would have liked to have gotten out though; feel the sand beneath his feet, cuff his jeans and walk into the surf, walk a little too far out or get caught by an overachieving wave.

Jeremy stares out into the darkness, the glow of the streetlights stretching just far enough onto the beach. The sound of rain hitting the rental drowns out the crashing waves so he settles for watching the white foam of crests breaking, the tide pulling in and stretching out. It’s not the same though, and Jeremy can’t escape his thoughts. He’d be better off just going for a drive.

But even if he wanted to waste all that gas, it's coming down hard. Visibility is terrible, more so with sunset about an hour past. Bad enough that Jeremy doesn’t want to risk driving again until it lightens up. Alvarez is going to have to wait a bit longer for her noodles and peanut sauce, and Jeremy’s stuck with his thoughts in the rental. He shoots Alvarez a quick text to update her and puts his phone to the side.

“Might as well make myself comfortable,” he muses, rolling the seat as far back as it can go to stretch his legs and reclining near halfway back, still able to watch the beach. Not the most comfortable, but enough to wait out the storm.

Jeremy’s mind inevitably goes to the case. They haven’t had much room to breathe since Rheman called Jeremy and Alvarez to his office and asked if they would go to South Carolina for a while to help Foxhole with an investigation. And once they got to Foxhole, they were quickly briefed before being prepped and sent undercover to that fight. They still had to play catch-up with Foxhole’s work up to this point on their case against Riko Moriyama.

The Moriyamas are the worst kept secret among the SCD. But the prestigious and highly influential vampire clan have never left even the most trace amount of evidence in any of their dealings. Even if minor associates slip up, there’s never enough to connect, much less confront them. Until recently.

From what Abram had divulged, the Moriyama clan has been less stable than they would lead outsiders to believe. Kengo Moriyama is the current head of the clan, and the Moriyama empire. Ichirou Moriyama is Kengo’s heir, but his younger twin, Riko, has been setting up a name for himself in a bid to take the throne, so to speak. Kengo and Ichirou are in Japan, the clan’s home base, Kengo’s younger brother Tetsuji, Riko have been in the United States to watch over the Western part of their empire as the branch family, directly under the main family in the hierarchy. But over the last four years, Riko has been taking liberties and risks neither Kengo nor Ichirou would approve of, according to Abram.

There had been a half second before he knew anything where Jeremy thought about standing back and letting the Moriyamas take themselves out in the brewing civil war. But there are innocents involved and the faster Riko is dealt with, the better. While they can’t openly choose a side in a mob family, Ichirou is by far the lesser evil, in Jeremy’s opinion, especially with how Riko’s been acting in recent years. He’s been left unchecked for far too long if even half the cases Jeremy’s read through are connected to him.

In his years working for the SCD, he’s more than aware of the politics and optics that get in the way of what might seem to be straightforward justice. The Moriyamas have power, money, and influence. Their fingers are in everything from politics to entertainment to real estate, and a fair amount of it is actually above board in the ways that make things all the more difficult for law enforcement to find a hole to hook and nail into.

Jeremy rubs his face, groaning. He came out to not think about the assignment, about work. He should have checked the weather forecast and stayed in, ordered delivery, and stuffed his face in the warm, _dry_ apartment.

A flash of light and a far too close-for-comfort crack of thunder startles him. Great. At least he’s in a car. Another flash lights the sky and a quieter, slightly more delayed roll of thunder melds with the pounding rain. He’s definitely not going to be driving while this goes on.

Staring out the windshield, Jeremy watches lighting flash heavy clouds and listens to the accompanying thunder. Some bolts seem to strike close enough that Jeremy’s nervous despite knowing he’s in the safest possible place that isn’t indoors.

But that shadow standing by the angry tide is not.

Jeremy squints into the distance, hoping he’s mistaken, but as another fork of lightning briefly illuminates the beach, it casts light on what is unmistakably a person standing in the middle of this terrible storm.

The area is completely dead, no other cars, and Jeremy isn’t sure when the person got there, never mind how long ago. But after another crash of light and thunder, it doesn’t seem like the person is of a mind to find shelter, especially when they decide to sit down. Jeremy doesn’t hesitate before grabbing his jacket and getting out of the car.

He braces himself against wind and rain and shudders at the thunder that vibrates in his chest as he makes his way to the figure.

“Hey!” he shouts as he approaches. The person shows no sign of hearing him. In fact, they don’t react until Jeremy’s standing over them, using his body as a shield against the rain pounding down on them. The person—man, Jeremy quickly realizes when he looks up—goes through a series of expressions ranging from confusion, alarm, and suspicion, before settling on a near-perfect blank mask. His eyes, though Jeremy can’t figure out the color in the dark, betray his wariness and apprehension.

“Sorry for startling you.” Jeremy flashes his friendliest, non-threatening smile. The man continues to stare uneasily back. “It’s dangerous, and I can’t in good conscience leave you out here. Shelter with me in my car? Or if you have somewhere else?”

For a moment, Jeremy thinks the man doesn’t hear him, and then maybe that he doesn’t speak English and he’s about to try again in Spanish, since it’s the only other language he knows, when the man says, so quiet Jeremy barely hears him over the rain, “Shelter on your own,” and turns his gaze back to the ocean.

Lightning flashes and the man’s skin—paleness already emphasized by his dark clothes—glows like the moon as it catches the spark of light. Thunder chases a few seconds behind and brings Jeremy’s thoughts back.

“I’m parked right back there,” he insists over the pounding rain. “Just until the storm dies down. Or at least until the lightning stops.”

The man continues to ignore him. Well, Jeremy can be stubborn too. Annoyingly so even, according to several people. Jeremy carefully crouches to the ground before sitting back on the wet sand and shrugging—struggling, his waterlogged clothes melding together and sticking to his skin—out of his jacket and throwing it over the man beside him. This gets the man to look at Jeremy again.

“What are you doing?” There’s a hint of an accent in the accusatory tone that Jeremy can’t quite place. But he doesn’t take off Jeremy’s jacket. In fact, he holds it against him when the wind tries to take it away.

“I’m not just going to leave you out here alone,” Jeremy replies cheerfully through already-chattering teeth. He’s completely and utterly soaked, and while his jacket hadn’t done much, without it he feels ten degrees colder. The man looks at him like Jeremy’s lost his mind and Jeremy continues to grin as best he can at him. He can’t fully suppress a flinch when a crack of thunder follows a little too close behind another flash of lightning, though. If he gets himself killed being a Good Samaritan, Alvarez is going to smack his ghost upside the head.

Another crash of thunder rattles in his chest and Jeremy tries, and fails, to rub some warmth into his arms. He sneezes and sniffles, brings his knees up as a flimsy shield.

“Fine.” Jeremy looks over and the man is glaring at him. “I do not want to be responsible for your idiocy.”

“Great!” Jeremy beams and hops up, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. As much as he would like to immediately set off for the warm, dry, lightning-proof safety of the rental, Jeremy waits pointedly for the other man to follow, not entirely trusting him to do so. From the way he grumbles, it seemed like he’d been considering it.

But the man does shift and gets to his feet, and Jeremy’s stunned when he rises, and keeps rising. Jeremy’s a perfectly respectable 5’8”. But the man has to be 6’2”, possibly 6’3”. Maybe more. Jeremy actually looks up at him. Even with his shoulders hunched.

“My car’s over there, come on.” He leads the way, looking behind to make sure the man follows, holding Jeremy’s jacket close around his shoulders.

Thankful he left the car unlocked, Jeremy hurriedly opens the passenger door and ushers the man in, gently coaxing him with a hand on his back when he hesitates. He runs around and opens the driver’s door, clambering in, teeth chattering, and flicking on the interior lights.

“Mother of Christ.” He cranks up the heat and sets everything to full blast. “Really should have checked the forecast, huh?” Pushing his hair back, Jeremy grins at his fellow drowned rat, who is all but folded up in the passenger seat, his legs too long for the space. “Make yourself comfortable. I have a towel in the back.”

It takes some uncomfortable twisting and maneuvering—and he accidentally presses the horn with his ass—but Jeremy manages to grab his go-bag, grateful he keeps it under the back seat instead of in the trunk, and resettles in his seat. He pulls out the small towel and holds it out to the man without looking, busy rooting through for the extra shirt he’d packed that didn’t have SCD emblazoned on it with his other hand. But the towel remains in his hand. Jeremy looks up.

The man’s eyes are gray, like in shade to the overcast clouds earlier in the day that had warned of the storm around them. There’s something heavy lurking in them.

“I promise it’s clean,” Jeremy says, wondering what’s stopping the other man.

“What about you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll just use it after you.” He offers the towel again, adding, when the man continues to hesitate, “Please.”

It takes a moment but he accepts, and sets to wiping his face and drying his hair. Jeremy’s phone buzzes from where he’d left it in the cup holder between the seats, and he pauses his search for a plain shirt to check it. It’s Alvarez and he quickly replies that he’s fine, he’ll pick something up on his way back for himself when the storm dies down, and not to wait up for him.

By then, the man has the towel around his shoulders and is running his fingers through his unevenly cut hair, combing the black locks into some semblance of order. He looks softer now. He’s still visibly tense, and not just from probably freezing in his drenched clothes, but with his ruffled hair damp at the ends and looking feather-soft and his wary reluctance, a stray cat comes to mind.

But Jeremy’s attention is quickly drawn to what he hadn’t noticed before. In the interior car light, bruising peeks up from the collar of the man’s shirt and Jeremy quickly runs his gaze over the rest of his body, eyes catching on patches that are dark from something more than just water.

“You’re hurt.” He’s reaching over before he can think, going for the arm closest to him. The man yanks his arm away and presses himself against the door. He looks seconds away from opening the door and jumping out into the rain. Jeremy raises his hands in peace. “Sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay, but I should have asked. Can I take a look? I have a first aid kit in here.”

“It’s nothing,” the man says.

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Either I can take a look or I’m driving to the nearest hospital.”

There’s a reaction at the mention of a hospital and the man sends Jeremy a withering glare as he relents. “Has anyone told you how irritating you are?” There’s definitely an accent in his voice, one Jeremy is pretty sure is French.

Jeremy grins with his victory. “All the time. Can you roll your sleeves up?”

While the man does that, Jeremy returns to his go-bag and digs out the first aid kit, setting it on top of the central console. But he isn’t prepared for what the rolled up sleeves and removal of bled-through, roughly-done bandaging reveals.

The bleeding came from long scratch-like lacerations that run down the man’s arms. They aren’t too deep, haven’t required stitching, and seem to be on the mend, but have reopened and bled anew. Along with the immediate problem, however, is a history of abuse. Bruising, days old and hours new, mottle his skin with faint scarring from all sorts of implements. Jeremy puts those out of mind, gets what he needs from his kit and takes the man’s left arm, drying and cleaning the injury before wrapping it up and moving on to the other arm. He’s quiet as he works and only when he’s done does he speak. “Do you have any other injuries I can help you with?”

The man shakes his head and pulls his arms back, wrapping them loosely around his middle. Jeremy doesn’t believe him and it must show on his face because the man mutters, “Nothing you can do anything more about.”

Not for the first time did Jeremy wish that healing magic was among his angel abilities like often assumed.

“If you’re in—” Jeremy starts but the man stops him with a firm, “No.”

He doesn’t say he’s fine, doesn’t say that he’s _not_ in some kind of trouble or bad situation—it’s obvious that he isn’t fine and is in trouble—but his tone brooks no argument, no leeway for Jeremy to encourage open.

“The storm is almost over,” the man says, changing the subject. And it is. The rain’s beginning to let up and the flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder are few and far between. It’s eased up enough for Jeremy to be comfortable driving.

“Anywhere I can drop you off?” Jeremy asks.

The man shakes his head. “I can walk.” He hands over the towel and makes to get out of the car, but Jeremy places his hand on the man’s knee before he can open the door. “Wait.”

The man tenses under his hand and Jeremy quickly removes it. “Sorry. Can I at least drop you off near some cover? You’re going to get soaked, again, if you leave from here.”

He can see the man consider arguing but he concedes with a short nod. “Fine. There’s a place nearby.”

Grinning, Jeremy buckles himself in and waits for the man to do so as well before he pulls out of the parking spot and drives to the man’s quiet directions. He ends up in front of a store, closed for the day, the scaffolding from construction of a new space providing shelter.

“Here we are. Oh, real quick,” he says, when the man releases his seatbelt. Jeremy rummages through the center console compartment and finds a notepad and pen. Flipping to an empty page, he scribbles in his name and number before tearing the page. “I’m not from here, but I’ll be around for a while for work, so please call or text me if you need help or a ride or someone to talk to.” He presses the piece of paper into the man’s chilled, rough hands. “Anything.”

The man stares at the paper and Jeremy half expects him to crumple it and throw it back. But to his pleasant surprise, the man folds the paper neatly and tucks it into his pocket. He doesn’t say anything but nods and gets out of the car. Jeremy watches his back as he walks away until he’s out of sight.

* * *

_But, as it so happened, some angels were near,  
and, heeding the grief of a gargoyle's tear,  
they each fluttered down from the heavens on high  
to sit with the gargoyles ‘neath thundering skies._

_Now, angels have ways of making things right,  
so they stayed with the gargoyles all through the night._

_(Pilkey, 21-26)_

* * *

Nearly two weeks go by and Jeremy doesn’t have the time to think too much on the man from the beach. He doesn’t expect to hear from him again, in all honesty. But if he doesn’t come to Jeremy, he hopes there’s someone the man can go to, or someone else who’s extended a helping hand.

Foxhole takes his mind off things. In fact, Foxhole takes his mind completely. They received new information, chatter mostly, that they’ve been investigating. The word is that Riko’s planning some big event in regards to the fights, and if Foxhole can get ahead of it, it might be their chance against the vampire. Abram’s been gone for the past few days to see what his contacts know. Minyard’s gone with him so Foxhole has been quieter than usual, absent of the apparently consistent antagonizing and provocation between the Minyards, Abram, and Gordon.

They’re just about wrapping up for the day when Jeremy’s phone rings. It’s an unknown number with an unfamiliar area code.

Jeremy slides to accept the call, answering. “Hello?” There’s a long beat of silence, Jeremy thinks it’s a mistaken call or someone being weird, but then there’s rustling and a pained hiss. “Are you okay? Who is this?”

There’s a strained laugh that’s more of a single rough exhale. “Jeremy?” The voice is quiet, muted by audible pain. The person clears their throat and says again, slightly louder. “You said to call if I needed help.”

###

Jeremy drives slowly, eyes scanning the sidewalk for the building the man from the beach said he would be by. He’d left Foxhole after briefly going over the situation. Alvarez already knew about what had happened at the beach and tossed Jeremy the keys to the rental, Wilds offering to give Alvarez a ride to the apartment.

The man from the beach hadn’t said anything other than he needed help and Jeremy wasn’t about to interrogate him over the phone. He asked the man where he was and was given an address a half hour from Foxhole though Jeremy might have made it closer to twenty. Jeremy would have preferred if the man could have stayed on the phone until Jeremy had him safe in his car, but the man had said his phone was just about dead. Jeremy still sent a text to the number when he got to the street corner specified, but hadn’t received a response.

It’s a residential area, quiet save for the occasional individual going for an evening jog or walking their dog, a few kids on their way home from after school activities, 9-5’ers pulling into parking spaces and beelining it to their front door.

He’s about to try calling when he sees a figure by the bus stop just up ahead. They’re leaning against the post, the hood of their sweatshirt pulled up over a baseball hat. The person stands, alert, as Jeremy approaches and pushes off the bus stop structure, walking up to Jeremy. Jeremy notes the way the person favors their right leg, and has an arm hugging their chest. They approach the passenger side window and when they look up, Jeremy bites back his exclamation at the sight of the man from the beach’s face. He clenches his jaw and unlocks the door. The man climbs in and shuts the door behind him.

They sit in silence, Jeremy idling by the curb. He wants to wait, to let the other man be the one to direct the conversation. But he can’t stop tracing the awful bruising and fresh cuts he can see on the man’s profile, and only imagine the rest of it. “Who did that to you?”

“No o—” The man cuts himself off and takes a deep, shuddered breath. He closes his eyes. “I can’t tell you.”

Jeremy doesn’t press, simply takes the answer the man’s willing to give. “And no hospital, I’m guessing.” When the man nods at that, he offers, “My car kit isn’t going to be enough and I would prefer to treat your wounds with more space. Would you be comfortable if I took you to my apartment to get your injuries treated? My pa—roommate will be home. I told her about running you into that night and she was with me when you called.”

The man is visibly torn but after a long pause, nods his assent.

###

Jeremy pulls into his parking space and runs around to the other side to help the man out. He offers his support, which the man takes after appearing to force himself to, but the pinched expression on his face relaxes just a bit as Jeremy helps him take some weight off of his definitely injured leg. It’s a little awkward, with the man more than a head taller than Jeremy, but Jeremy wraps his arm around the man’s waist and the man hooks an initially hesitant arm around Jeremy’s shoulders.

Jeremy’s surprised by what he feels over the man’s sweatshirt. While he’d gotten a decent look at the man’s form that night on the beach, feeling the lean muscles shifting under his hand, even through the layers of a sweatshirt and shirt, is another matter. The man’s arm around his shoulder is also a toned, solid presence, flexing and shifting. Jeremy’d already seen it, felt it, when he treated the scratches, but he’d been focused on the injury. Feeling the man’s arm around him with the solid length of his body against Jeremy’s side is something else entirely. He’s chilled, though—the sweatshirt not doing much against the fall weather, or he’d been outside for a while before Jeremy picked him up.

They make it to the apartment, and Jeremy’s digging for his keys while trying not to jostle the man too much, when the door opens.

“Hey, I could hear you,” Alvarez says, opening the door wide. She gives the man leaning on Jeremy a quick once-over but doesn’t say anything other than: “Come on in. I have the couch and coffee table set up.”

They get the man to the couch, which Alvarez has prepared with a folded up blanket and several pillows; a nest waiting to happen. The coffee table is covered in a variety of first aid equipment: bandaging supplies, a suture kit, OTC pain medication, cotton balls and swabs, and even a heating pad.

SCD agents are all First Aid and CPR certified, though Jeremy is aware some offices and superiors are less stringent about their agents being recertified on time. And if there's something they need advice or help with, Laila is just a phone call away.

Once the man is settled on the couch, Jeremy gets to the belated introductions, “Right, this is my best friend Alvarez. Alvarez, uh—”

He realizes he still doesn’t know the man’s name and trails off, tries to change the subject but the man replies, “Jean.” His accent is more pronounced, definitely French.

“Jean,” Jeremy repeats with a smile.

Jean glances up at him and Jeremy swears he sees Jean’s mouth flicker into something that’s almost a smile before Jean flattens it, brows faintly furrowed as if confused by his own facial movement. But he quickly clears his expression to its previous politely blank and distanced mask as he looks back to Alvarez. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

Alvarez waves the apology off. “You’re not disturbing anyone; make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? It’s a bit late, but we have coffee too.”

“Tea is fine. Thank you.”

“Milk, sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“Great. Jer, help him get comfortable. You want a mug, too?”

“Yes, please,” he calls to Alvarez’s already retreating form. Then he turns to the man, to Jean, and sits on the coffee table in front of him. “You heard her. Let’s get you comfortable and then we’ll treat your injuries.”

Jeremy ends up helping Jean out of his shoes. His right ankle is a bit swollen, sprained at the very least, and Jeremy immediately sets to examining it first. He carefully folds up the leg of Jean’s pants and goes through checking to see the severity of the injury. Jean had been able to walk on his own, but Jeremy is more than familiar with the lengths people can go to ignore or fight through pain. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to be more than a light to slightly moderate sprain. At least nothing that would require going to the hospital, which Jeremy knows is going to be an uphill fight just to stop Jean from leaving the apartment, never mind actually convincing him to go.

“Ice and rest should do it. Maybe a splint or ankle wrap if you have to be on it. But if it gets worse, you’ll need to see a professional,” he says. Jean hums in acknowledgment but Jeremy is under no illusion that even if his injury is more severe he’ll actually do so.

Jeremy props the ankle up on the coffee table with a pillow. He helps him out of his sweatshirt next, since he’s got bruised ribs or something and can’t pull the sweatshirt over his head without being visibly in pain. Under the sweatshirt, he’s got a plain black t-shirt. The injury Jeremy had treated that night on the beach looks to be healing up well, the cuts slightly raised scarring in their stage of healing that might heal completely without a visual reminder.

Setting aside Jean’s belongings, Jeremy gets up. “I’m going to grab some ice and be right back.”

He’s in time to switch places with Alvarez, who’s carefully carrying the three mugs into the living room. He hears faint conversation and the sound of pills rattling, and when he returns with three ice packs and clean dish towels, he’s in time to see Jean dry swallow some pain pills and take a deep swallow of his tea that has to scald every inch of his mouth and throat, but he only sinks back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut, visibly warming up. Alvarez, however, is not in the room, but Jeremy hears water running from the bathroom. Two mugs of tea are on the table, one lighter with milk as Alvarez prefers and the other no doubt made to Jeremy’s preference with a couple spoons of sugar.

Jeremy returns to his place on the table and carefully arranges one of the ice packs and towels on Jean’s ankle, apologizing when he flinches at the cold. “20 minutes of that.” Jeremy glances at his watch to note the time. “Face next?”

As he says it, he realizes he needs to figure out how to clean Jean’s face. He’s only just settled the man and got ice on his ankle. He doesn’t want to put him on the leg to get to the bathroom and back. As he tries to figure out a way that would be the most efficient and easiest on Jean’s leg, Alvarez returns with a plastic bowl and a washcloth.

“What would I do without you,” Jeremy thanks, taking the bowl of warm slightly-soapy water and the washcloth.

Alvarez ruffles his hair. To Jean, she asks, “Any food preferences and/or dietary restrictions?”

“I am not—”

“You’re having dinner with us, don’t even try to argue.” Alvarez cuts him off. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll order enough for a family of eight with options for every common dietary restriction and allergy I can think of.”

Before Jean could try to fend off being fed, because he looked like he was about to, Jeremy adds, “She’s not kidding. Trust me.”

Jean holds Alvarez's gaze, Alvarez doing nothing more than raising a brow.

“I don’t eat fish or red meat,” Jean concedes.

Alvarez smiles. “How do you feel about Chinese? Fried rice and some chicken and veggie dishes?”

Jean nods, and Jeremy confirms he’s good with the decision. While Alvarez calls the restaurant to order, Jeremy shifts to perch on the arm rest and gets to carefully cleaning up Jean’s face. He’s careful around Jean’s cut lip, and gentle against the bruising over his nose, cheekbone, and eye. He’s methodical about cleaning up dirt and dried blood, before going off to refill the bowl with clean warm water and rinsing away leftover soap and dirt. He then starts on the split lip and works his way up.

Jeremy works in silence, with the occasional direction or apology. Alvarez is the loudest person in the apartment as she orders dinner and then walks by them to go to her room to wash up and get changed for the night, filling the apartment with the sound of the shower running.

Luckily, none of Jean’s cuts need stitches and should heal up within a few days. The rest of his facial injuries are bruises, nothing broken and requiring a hospital visit. Jeremy gives Jean one of the other ice packs to hold against his face.

“Anywhere else need seeing to?” Jeremy asks, even as his gaze dips to Jean’s chest. Jean notices.

“You seem to already know,” he replies. “My ribs are bruised, it’s fine. I know what broken ribs feel like.”

Jeremy frowns. He’s frowning at Jean’s apathetic familiarity to broken ribs—he says it in a way that sounds like it’s a common occurrence—but Jean seems to misinterpret the look, sighing and setting down the ice pack for his face. He pulls the bottom of his shirt up to his sternum, and at first Jeremy’s eyes get stuck at the trail of fine dark hairs in stark contrast against pale skin that leads into low-slung jeans. But he quickly begins to catalog scars and ranged bruising until he moves his way up to the stain of purple and green over most of Jean’s upper chest, starting at his upper abdomen and covering a good portion of his chest, the darkest of the bruising centered around his right side. Jeremy sucks his teeth in sympathized pain.

“You’re sure nothing’s broken?” he asks. He realizes he’s reaching out to touch Jean’s ribs and stops himself short, hand hovering an inch away before he aborts the movement, clenching his hands on his knees.

“Yes.” Jean drops his shirt and returns to icing his black eye.

Jeremy grabs the last ice pack he’d brought out, the largest one, and hands it over. Jean takes it and hugs it to his chest.

Alvarez returns, in sweatpants and a tank, towel around her shoulders. She takes one look at Jean. “I should have prepped a cold bath. So, can you tell us what happened to you?”

“Nothing you can do anything about,” Jean replies, his voice hollow, resigned.

Jeremy looks over to Alvarez and she knows exactly what he’s asking when she nods. Supernatural-related violence is still widely underreported as few local law enforcement agencies have a supernatural crimes dedicated division and even then, are rarely equipped, much less staffed appropriately. The nearest SCD is often called in instead. When Jeremy was a rookie, he’d worked several such cases. Every one of the victims hadn’t believed anything could be done or been far too afraid to risk help when their attacker was supernatural.

Jeremy catches Jean’s eye and leans forward on his knees. “Jean, we can do something about it. Alvarez and I are from the SCD.” He shifts to get at his wallet and shows his credentials. Jean’s eyes scan over the ID, eyes widening briefly for a second, glancing up at Jeremy.

“You’re…”

“Supernatural.” He waits for what usually happens next after someone sees the ‘supernatural’ designation underneath his name, asking what he is, but Jean doesn’t. So Jeremy continues, “If whoever’s hurting you is supernatural, we can protect you.”

Jean laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. It’s short and cynical and ragged. “I am sure you believe that.”

Jeremy isn’t discouraged. “We can at least try. If you let us.”

But Jean shakes his head, his jaw set.

The doorbell rings, cutting off any further attempt to persuade for the time being.

“That’ll be food. Jer, clear this up so we can eat here? And I need cash for a tip.”

Jeremy tosses Alvarez his wallet and sets to clearing the medical supplies off to the side. Alvarez chats briefly with the delivery person, before the door shuts and she returns to the couch holding large paper bags of takeaway. They quickly lay out their dinner on the coffee table, giving Jean’s raised leg space. Jeremy runs into the kitchen to grab bowls and loads a generous helping of rice, veggies, and chicken into Jean’s. Alvarez sits on the other side of the couch and Jeremy settles himself on the floor between her and Jean.

Alvarez grabs the remote and turns on the TV. “Preferences?”

Jean is silent, unsurprisingly, but doesn’t seem to have a negative reaction to Alvarez putting on the first episode of her favorite season of the Great British Baking Show.

Even though both Jeremy and Alvarez have seen the show numerous times, they still trade commentary, mostly about how much they want to eat some of the bakes, or how much they love a certain baker, or the hosts’ terrible puns.

By the time they clear most of the food, it’s gotten fairly late, and Jeremy and Alvarez have to report to Foxhole in the morning. They clean up, and Jeremy’s in the kitchen washing dishes when he hears Alvarez in the living room: “Where do you think you’re going?”

Jeremy quickly wipes his hands and goes out to see what’s going on. Jean’s trying to put his shoes back on and has piled up the pillows and ice packs he’d been using neatly on the coffee table.

“I appreciate the assistance and dinner. But it’s late,” Jean says politely.

“Yeah, it is late,” Jeremy says. “We can figure out what to do in the morning. For now, rest is what you need, and trying to jam your sprained ankle into your shoe and wandering off this late on your own is not resting.” He casts a pointed glance at the shoe still in Jean’s hand. “Please, just for tonight. You can take my bed and I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”

He’s ready to press, to try and convince the man on his couch to allow Jeremy this one night to make sure he’s safe, and is openly relieved when Jean drops the shoe with a sigh. “Fine. But I can stay here.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Nu-huh. I promise my sheets are clean. Alvarez, get the door for me?” Working together, Jeremy helps Jean limp into his bedroom. After carefully depositing Jean on the bed, Jeremy goes to the closet and pulls out clothes for the both of them for the night. He goes into the bathroom to change and knocks before returning to Jean, who’s put on Jeremy’s shirt. Jean’s taller than Jeremy but Jeremy has more room around his shoulders, so the shirt fits well enough. He’s even changed into the pair of basketball shorts Jeremy offered.

Jeremy helps him get settled, piling pillows to elevate his ankle. Alvarez comes in and leaves a glass of water and painkillers in case Jean needs them later in the night, before bidding them both goodnight. Jeremy lingers, making sure Jean has everything he needs.

“And if you need anything else, I’ll be right outside.”

“Yes, so you’ve said numerous times,” Jean replies. It takes a moment for Jeremy to register that Jean’s tone is just slightly this side of teasing. Jeremy grins.

“Well. Just to make sure you know. I’ll stop bothering you now. Good night, sleep well.”

He isn’t expecting a response as he closes the bedroom door, but he smiles when he hears a returned, “Good night, Jeremy.”

###

Late in the night, Jeremy groans when he sees that he’s barely done more than doze for three hours, after tossing and turning. The couch isn’t the most comfortable place, but he knows if he had shared with Alvarez, he’d have about the same chance of getting any sleep, probably less. He has no idea how Laila shares a bed with her without losing an eye or a spleen to an elbow or knee.

He stares up at the ceiling for a bit before his gaze is inevitably drawn to his bedroom door, wondering about the man from the beach: Jean.

There’s still two hours until his alarm goes off, and another hour before he has to really get his butt moving if he doesn’t want to be late, but he needs to shower since he didn’t last night and he doubts he’ll be getting much sleep for the rest of the night—or early morning as it were. The coffee at Foxhole was far from the dredge available in most field offices, better even than the stuff Rheman orders specially for the LA office. Plus, he, Alvarez, and Jean were going to discuss what to do about Jean’s situation.

It’s just enough self-convincing he doesn’t feel intrusively nosy and overprotective as he quietly gets off the couch and peeks into the bedroom. He’s just grabbing his clothes so he can get ready a bit earlier. And maybe check in on their overnight guest. But when he carefully opens the door and peeks inside, the room is lit from the glow of city lights coming in from the open window. And Jean isn’t there.

“Jean?” Jeremy calls out, no longer trying to be quiet. But there’s no sign the other man had been there save for Jeremy’s loaned clothes folded neatly atop pillows that should have been elevating a sprained ankle. He goes back out into the living room and checks the front door, but all the locks are in place. No one had left from there. Returning to the bedroom, Jeremy goes to the open window. Jeremy’s window looks out onto a quiet backstreet that is deserted. Along the facade of the building, there’s no proper footholds or hand grips, and there doesn’t seem to be any damage down to the smooth concrete. They’re four storeys above the ground—there’s no way someone could leave from here. Not unless they could fly.

###

“Jer, get out of your head.”

Jeremy blinks and looks down at Alvarez, who’s back in her blond wig and expensive costume, Reynolds doing the finishing touches to her makeup.

He almost shakes his head, but Klose is still doing his hair so he does so mentally. “Right. Sorry. Could you go over that again?”

Up front, Day repeats the course of action, confirming details and making sure everyone remembers the code words and signals. Jeremy has no time to be in his head right now. They’re minutes away from raiding the Moriyama fight auction they’d barely learned about in time. Abram had once again secured them invitations and masks for Martin and Marisole Jacobs, and was also going to be in attendance as a member of his organization. Minyard was still with him and would also be present under an alias. The rest of Foxhole would be standing by, at the ready, so this time Jeremy and Alvarez are far from alone.

Once Reynolds and Klose are satisfied with Jeremy and Alvarez’s appearances, Gordon sets about fitting them with their ear pieces and making sure everyone’s works. As they aren’t going to risk getting caught trying to enter with weapons, the rest of Foxhole suits up in preparation for combat while Jeremy and Alvarez ready their nerves.

After Jean had disappeared, Jeremy had called and sent texts to the number Jean had contacted him from. After the first call rang and rang and rang into the automated voicemail message, Jeremy sent a text asking if Jean was alright to no response. His call the following day went in the same way, and Jeremy sent another text that went unanswered. There were no read receipts, so Jeremy couldn’t know if Jean had even seen his texts.

And then, not three days later, Foxhole was all hands on deck to plan and prepare for the raid, and Jeremy couldn’t be distracted.

But, last night, as he lay in bed trying to forget about the raid long enough to sleep, his phone buzzed.

_I shouldn’t have accepted your help._

_Thank you, but forget me._

Jeremy had immediately called Jean, relief at hearing back from him warring with worry at his message, only for a generic automated message to tell him the number was no longer in service.

Still, he couldn’t think about Jean now. This is the one chance they have to get anything solid against Riko Moriyama. Jeremy won’t be the reason for ruining Foxhole’s efforts and accidentally sabotaging the mission, the entire investigation, because he can’t stop thinking about haunted gray eyes and a flicker of an unfamiliar smile.

A hand drops on his shoulder and Jeremy looks up at Wymack.

“If either of you die, James will kill me,” he says.

Abby sighs from the other end of the room where she and Dr. Minyard have been preparing medical supplies. “David.”

Wymack turns to her. “What? He will.”

Reynolds leans over to say, “Pep talks aren’t really his thing, if you haven’t figured that out yet.”

Boyd adds, “What he means to say is that we’ve got your back.”

Jeremy grins, and the tension is cut enough that everyone is still alert, but no longer tense or anxious about what’s to come. There’s anticipation and determination in the air. “Let’s go.”

###

Jeremy only breathes after he and Alvarez are let into the country club the Moriyamas have completely rented out for the auction. Signs declaring the presence of a private event and apologizing for any disruption to other patrons and members are displayed on gold stands connected by velvet ropes that block off all but a single, guarded entrance. Moriyama security, in the same black masks from the fight at the old metalworks factory, check guests for invitations and hidden weapons.

Alvarez is given back her purse and slides her hand back onto Jeremy’s offered arm before they follow the guided path to a large event hall that’s essentially a ballroom. A long table is laden with glasses of champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and mini-desserts for the modest number of attendees to help themselves to, and a few are definitely helping themselves. On the opposite wall a stage is set up, and in the corner is a piano played by a woman singing a jazzy lounge number.

Jeremy doesn’t immediately see anyone who could be Abram or Minyard as he and Alvarez grab themselves a glass from the table and walk the room. They linger by the large windows that look out onto the club’s golf course and Jeremy fights the urge to see if he can catch sight of where Walker is hidden, keeping an eye on them through the scope of her rifle. Everyone else is hidden around the property with the ballroom, and Jeremy and Alvarez in their line of sight.

“Have we met them before, dear?” Alvarez murmurs. Jeremy glances over to where she subtly gestures and it takes him a moment to recognize two men watching the pianist as Abram and Minyard. Abram’s hair is a muted brown and his striking blue eyes are hidden by brown contacts. The man hovering at his side munching on one of the pastries from the buffet table has to be Minyard by his energy alone. He’s darkened his hair to black and his shoes have given him a few inches so he’s just a bit taller than Abram now.

Jeremy catches Abram’s eye, and while he makes no visible show of recognition but for the alert spark in his gaze behind his mask, Jeremy has a feeling Abram had noticed him and Alvarez as soon as they had entered.

“At a charity function,” Jeremy answers, following the script. In his ear, Wymack asks if they’ve caught sight of their main target.

Alvarez answers, “I don’t think I recognize anyone else here.” She makes a show of looking around.

“Me neither,” Jeremy adds. They’ve looked at so many photos of Riko Moriyama—from blurry candids to professional photo-ops to his licenses and other official forms of identification—that Jeremy can picture him with his eyes closed. The second son is supposed to be at the auction, but there’s so far been no sign of him nor any other notable member of the clan, only the eerily identical security grunts posted at the doors.

They mingle briefly with other attendees who chat and try to figure out what exactly is up for the auction. Whether it was to keep to the cloak and dagger/secret society aspect, or to keep people like Foxhole unaware, or some mix of both, no one really knew what kind of exclusive auction this was. Jeremy just hopes it’s incriminating enough to pin the Moriyamas down.

As Jeremy and Alvarez get caught in polite conversation with another couple, the room’s lights begin to dim save for the strip that runs over the stage. Everyone begins to gather by the stage and Alvarez and Jeremy find a spot towards the front with a good view. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy sees Abram and Minyard not too far away. The pianist finishes her song and all that’s left is a quiet murmur of anticipation. And then finally, a figure walks out onto the stage.

“Hello, everyone,” Riko Moriyama says, taking the stage. He is maskless, exuding charisma and charm and arrogance, his admittedly handsome face looking down on all of them like a king. “We have prepared quite the night for you.”

There’s clapping and excited chattering. Jeremy claps along and fixes what he hopes passes for an excited smile on his face but Riko’s gaze scans the audience without pause or suspicion.

“Some of you may be wondering what exactly this auction is for,” Riko continues. “I know that you all have your favorites among the… talents.” He grins and winks. Everyone laughs at the apparent joke. “And you’ve been enjoying seeing them in action.” A few individuals loudly vocalize their agreement. “Tonight, you have the chance to buy the time of your favorites.”

At that, Riko turns his body to the side and gestures to the other end of the stage and Jeremy watches with a sinking feeling in his gut as a man walks out from the wing. Jeremy doesn’t recognize him but a number of the other attendees do, clapping and talking to their companions and acquaintances, excited. The man doesn’t acknowledge the applause and whispers as he walks across the stage before stopping and turns towards the front, head tilted down. He’s dressed up in a suit, entirely in black from shoes to tie, and that’s all normal enough except for the thick metal cuffs that circle his wrists and are fused together, locking his arms in front of him, his range of movement limited to clenching and unclenching his hands.

“I see you’re familiar with this one,” Riko laughs. He steps up to the cuffed man and grabs his jaw, tilting his head up roughly for the audience. His face is a blank mask, his eyes empty. When Riko lets go, there’s already the start of bruising. “Why don’t we get the rest of them on stage then?”

At his signal, a line of individuals all in the same black suits and metal cuffs shuffle onto the stage. Jeremy grows sicker and sicker with every person that walks on. Eventually, nine of them stand on the stage—a fairly diverse set with the youngest a girl looking to be in her twenties and the oldest a man somewhere in his thirties or forties—each with the same dead and empty expression.

Jeremy’s ready to whisper the codeword that will have the Foxhole agents storming the ballroom and putting an end to this, but Riko raises a hand to silence the chatter. “I know you’re all eager to start bidding, but I am not done just yet. We have one more special offer.”

There’s faint shuffling before another figure comes out from the wing and Jeremy’s heart stops as he recognizes the tall, dark haired man that staggers onto the stage.

Beside him, Alvarez inhales sharply and when Jeremy glances to look at her, to silently beg her to tell him he’s mistaken, she’s just as shocked. She wraps her hand around Jeremy’s arm and squeezes in comfort, warning, support.

The man walks past the lineup, going to Riko’s side. He stops just short of Riko’s outstretched hand, and Jeremy sees the brief crack of Riko’s charming persona in a flicker of a scowl as Riko reaches out and grabs the man by the crook of his arm and tugs him over. The man holds uncomfortably still, stiff and tense. He has nearly a foot on Riko but Riko grabs his tie and tugs him down until he’s kneeling. The man doesn’t make a sound even though the tie’s been tightened to the point he must be nearly choking.

Riko lets go of the tie to caress the man’s cheek before roughly tilting his face up with two fingers under his chin. Jeremy’s breath is torn from his lungs at heart-achingly familiar gray eyes. Jeremy had known as soon as the man had come onto the stage, but he couldn’t help wanting, _needing_ , to deny it. But it’s Jean. There’s no mistaking it.

“He’s quite pretty, isn’t he?” Riko says. He presses his thumb over Jean’s lips; the bottom one looks newly split. Jean doesn’t react until Riko presses his thumb more firmly against Jean’s mouth, and only after Jean flinches does Riko pull away, a smear of red on his thumb. Riko licks the blood with a dark grin and Jeremy wants to throw up.

Riko runs his hand over Jean’s head, holding him by his hair to keep his head up. “He’s actually one of mine, and I’m quite loath to share my belongings, but to celebrate and thank you all for your continued support, I’m willing to let him go for a few days. Be warned, he’s been going through a bit of a rebellious phase. Though that might be more appealing to a few of you.”

A man behind Jeremy agrees loudly at that. He’d been making all sorts of comments to his companion that Jeremy had to quickly tune out before he did something drastic. And Jeremy’s so tempted. He can barely suppress his disgust, his rage, and the only thing keeping a lid on the swirling mass of emotions is Wymack giving orders in his ear and the rest of Foxhole ready to burst in and put a stop to all this. Just a few more moments.

Riko lets go of Jean and walks over to the first man who had come onto the stage. He says something to the man who closes his eyes, face tensing in concentration, the first sign of any emotion. His human form falls in pieces: goat horns protrude from his forehead, one broken near the tip, the edges jagged; shoes kick off to free hooves, his stature shifting to accommodate his goat-like limbs; and his ears lengthen and sharpen at the points. When he’s done, he’s panting, his skin taking on a sickly pallor. The audience cheers.

“Now then. Let’s begin. Bidding for this satyr starts at—”

Jeremy and Alvarez duck—covering their ears and closing their eyes—just before glass shatters behind them followed by flash grenades. When they open their eyes, everyone else in the ballroom is momentarily blinded, confusion and shock quickly ramping into panic.

Wymack’s voice cuts through the mess: “SCD! Nobody move!”

The attendees do as told, hands thrown in the air in panic as Wymack—flanked by Wilds, Boyd, and Walker—comes into the ballroom through the shattered window. Jeremy’s gaze goes straight to the stage where Riko’s rubbing his eyes, his heightened sight particularly weak to the grenades. Two bodyguards run onto the stage to get to him and Jeremy pushes past stunned guests, in pursuit.

He makes it to just in front of the stage when one of the guards draws a gun and starts to take aim at Jeremy, but a spear of blackness shoots across the air and pierces him through his heart before dissipating, leaving behind the acrid smell of sulfur. The guard has a moment to be stunned, cough up blood, before he slumps dead to the ground, eyes still wide and unbelieving. Jeremy looks over in the direction of the spear to see Abram, hand still outstretched, fingers blackened claws.

He doesn’t have time to do more than nod his thanks. The guards are gradually getting their bearings back and Riko is getting away. But some of the guards are grabbing the fighters who are still suffering from the flash grenades and whatever else has been done to them. Two grab hold of Jean, yanking him up by his shoulders and dragging him off behind Riko.

Jeremy’s wings rip from his back, tearing through skin and clothes. They unfurl—shaking off blood, flesh, and tattered clothing he’ll apologize for later—white feathers pristine and glowing faintly as if they each held tiny golden fires. Propelling himself with a sharp flap, he launches into the air. The guards fumble for their weapons but Jeremy tucks his wings in and drops back to the ground, kicking one of the guards in the face and using his wings to whip the other off his feet and knocking him back off the stage.

Jeremy turns to Jean, who’s staring up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Of course you’re an angel,” Jean breathes.

Before Jeremy can fully process Jean recognizing him, Alvarez warns: “Jeremy!”

Swinging around, Jeremy sees a guard who climbs onto the stage and comes at him, fangs out. He braces against the attack with his arm, the vampire’s fangs digging into the meat of his forearm. Wincing at the pain, he grabs the vampire by the throat and concentrates, heat building in his palm, a white-golden glow emanating between the vampire’s skin and his hand. The vampire lets go of Jeremy’s arm to screech in pain, hands clawing at Jeremy’s grip around the vampire’s neck. Jeremy releases his hold just as he shoots a burst of golden fire that throws the vampire back.

Immediate threat dealt with, Jeremy checks on his arm. It’s bleeding a considerable amount, the vampire’s bite having dragged. Jeremy slips off his tie and roughly binds the wound, temporarily dealt with for now. He turns to look for Alvarez, and sees her take care of a few more guards attempting to take off with other prisoners. She’s torn the hem of her dress to give her a wider range of mobility and is firing a gun that she either picked off of a guard or was given by someone from Foxhole. Boyd’s at her side, using the cover she provides to help captives out of the line of fire.

On the other side of the shattered glass where Foxhole had come in, Reynolds and Klose are rounding up the auction guests; Reynolds using her half-blood siren abilities to temporarily pacify the ones aggressively resisting arrest, and Dr. Minyard seeing to injuries needing immediate attention. Walker and Abram are dealing with the remaining guards; Walker armed with only knives and moving this side of preternaturally fast, and Abram leaning on his demonic abilities. Wymack, Minyard, and Day chase after Riko; Wymack partially shifted, jaguar rosettes partially visible against his dark skin and Jeremy catches lengthened canines when Wymack shouts directives.

“Get them to Abby and Seth,” Wymack says to Jeremy, nodding towards the cuffed fighters, just before he disappears into the wing after Riko.

Jeremy returns his attention to Jean and helps him to his feet, shielding him under one of his wings. He calls out to the two other captives nearby, Boyd having gathered the rest, to follow him. Between Alvarez, Walker, and Abram handling the last of the guards, Jeremy manages to get Jean and the others across the ballroom and safely to where Abby and Gordon’s van is parked on the green.

The back door’s open, three other captives seated inside and being seen to. Gordon’s working on one of their cuffs and Abby appears to be checking another’s vitals. When she spots Jeremy and his charges approaching, she says something to the woman she was treating before hopping out of the back of the van and coming to help.

“Hi, I’m Abby. I’m an SCD doctor. Do any of you have any injuries that need immediate attention?” she asks.

All of them shake their heads silently.

“Okay. Let’s get you all settled for the moment. Seth’s working on removing those cuffs.” To Jeremy, Abby says, “Can you help? And then I’ll take a look at your arm.”

Jeremy takes a moment to withdraw his wings, grimacing as his bones and muscle shift. When his shoulder blades settle—the structure of his wings resting within his back again—and all that’s left are the odd stray feathers on the ground, he helps Abby get the three new captives situated, draping shock blankets around shoulders and holding up bottles of water for them to sip at. He does his best to be gentle, his heart aching at how they all look so bewildered, afraid to be hopeful. None of them seem to be injured beyond healing bruises and whatever inhibitor they’d been given would be worked out of their system within a few hours.

Jeremy ends up getting to Jean last, and he can’t say whether it was intentional or not. He had felt Jean’s gaze on him the entire time as he worked alongside Abby in the quickly cramped van—they had two shuttles on the way, one to take the victims to the hospital and one to take those arrested to Foxhole for questioning—but said nothing. Jeremy couldn’t read his expression either, his gray eyes undecided amongst a flurry of emotions so interwoven he couldn’t even identify them individually.

Jeremy grabs a shock blanket and wraps it around Jean’s shoulders, flashing the man a small smile. “I told you we could protect you.” He looks into Jean’s eyes, the grays swirling with too many thoughts just barely shielded. Jeremy has so many questions, but doesn’t want to overwhelm Jean, never mind knowing where to even begin.

“Fuck yeah!” Gordon’s sudden exclamation redirects everyone’s attention. Jeremy looks over to see Gordon holding up a pair of opened cuffs up in the air in victory. The woman in front of him rubs at her newly freed arms. “Abby, got somewhere I can put these to take apart later?”

Abby tells him to toss them into the front to be gathered later before moving aside so he can work on freeing the next person. Jeremy turns his attention back to Jean, his gaze falling on the dried blood on his split lip. His mind flashes back to the scene of Riko pulling and shoving Jean around on the stage and he mentally shakes the image away.

“How’s your lip?” he asks, turning away briefly to grab supplies from Abby’s open first aid kit.

“Fine,” Jean says, the first he’s spoken since Jeremy landed in front of him on the stage. His voice is rough and Jeremy grabs a bottle of water with a straw and holds it up for him to sip. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you want more. I’m going to treat your lip, okay?” Jean holds still for him as he works in silence, just like when Jean had been on Jeremy and Alvarez’ couch, before they watched TV and ate Chinese and settled for the night only for Jean to have disappeared before sunrise.

As Jeremy works, his mind tries to figure out just who and what Jean could be. His suspicions of Jean being supernatural have been confirmed. He’s a fighter, but not one of the normal ones, according to Riko. Riko had expressed a level of ownership that differed from the rest. Jean was _special_.

Glancing up at Jean’s downcast eyes that held a storm, at his fairly delicate features that wore a weathered shield, Jeremy thought Jean was definitely special. But in a way that made something in his chest flutter instead of his skin crawl.

By the time he finishes with Jean’s lip—taking longer than needed in his distracted state while still trying to be as gentle as possible—Gordon’s already freed the other fighters, leaving Jean for last. Jeremy moves out of the way after a moment of reluctant hesitation he doesn’t want to think about and let’s Gordon do his job. Abby pounces on him before he can decide what to do with himself.

“Let me see that arm,” she demands. Jeremy obediently maneuvers himself to sit in one of the last free seats Abby gestures to and holds out his injured arm. The bleeding’s stopped but his tie has dried to his skin. Jeremy grimaces as Abby unties and peels the ruined silk from his arm. After she cleans the area, it looks markedly better. The jagged puncture wounds from the vampire’s fangs look like someone tried to stake him with a large two-pronged fork. Abby disinfects the wound and Jeremy hisses at the sting. Given the chance to rest and having to focus on his injuries, his arm catches up to him, feeling heavy and sore and throbbing as Abby treats it.

“Are you light-headed at all? Dizzy?” she asks after she finishes taping the gauze wrap in place.

Jeremy shakes his head. “He didn’t manage to actually drink from me.”

“If it starts bleeding again, come to me or Aaron, but it looks like you’ll be all healed up within a week.” She gives him the usual spiel of what to look out for along with renewed bleeding and how often to clean and change the bandaging.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jeremy salutes when she’s done and Abby pats his cheek before moving to check on Jean as Gordon’s gotten his cuffs off. Jeremy wants to stick around but he’s fixed up and there’s nothing more he can do other than get underfoot. “You all good here then?”

Despite pushing down the whispering hope that Abby or Gordon could use him around, Jeremy’s still reluctant and can’t help the pulse of disappointment when Gordon just grunts and Abby thanks him for his help but says he’s free to check on the others. He hesitates for a moment, unnoticed by either Gordon or Abby—Gordon busy inspecting one of the sets of cuffs and Abby doing check-ups—his gaze helplessly lingering on Jean’s profile. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for and eventually turns away when Jean doesn’t look up.

###

On his way back to the ballroom, Jeremy passes Boyd and Klose who are ushering along the remaining six fighters. Boyd continues on with them while Klose lingers long enough for a quick relay of the situation at both of their destinations.

The ballroom’s been cleared and contained, but Riko had gotten away. Wymack, Day, and Minyard had gotten caught by a burst of demonic magic and surprise back-up who stalled them long enough for Riko to escape through a service door backstage. The demons also managed to get away. Riko may be a vampire elitist, but apparently he was fine with using the talents and abilities of those he considers lesser for his own purposes.

The ballroom is a complete mess of broken glass, wood, and bodies—thankfully only Moriyama vampire grunts. Abram’s finishing up restraining surviving Moriyama members, of which there are a grim few and all of whom are unconscious. Walker and Wymack seem to be talking with the club’s management, Wymack scowling with his human teeth, arms crossed over his chest, and Walker smiling pacifically as if she hadn’t ruthlessly cut down mafia-affiliated vampires with combat knives moments ago. Reynolds and Alvarez have managed to round up all the guests, masks confiscated to reveal a number of prominent members of political, business, and entertainment circles. Those not under the effects of Reynolds’ voice are either pale with fear or red from entitled anger. Day and Minyard are with Minyard’s twin getting their injuries treated. For the first time, it’s obvious which twin is which without relying on their clothes due to Minyard’s darkened hair.

Alvarez notices him first as he walks over. “Jer, how’s the arm?”

Jeremy holds up his bandaged arm. “Abby took care of it.”

One of the guests, a portly man with more hair on his eyebrows than atop his head, shoves into the conversation. “You have no grounds to detain me! I am the founder of—”

Jeremy recognizes the man’s voice from his skin-crawling commentary earlier and Jeremy’s mind goes to Jean, sitting silent and distant in the van. He rounds on the man, cutting him off sharply. “You have been caught partaking in human trafficking, patronizing illegal supernatural fights with ties to organized crime that have been under ongoing investigation in the SCD. And I’m sure there’s more that we’ll discover as we continue this investigation even after you call your lawyers when we bring you to Foxhole for questioning.”

The man turns an even darker shade of red that starts veering into purple. “What human trafficking? They’re not people!”

Jeremy fixes a smile on his face even though every part of his body aches to throttle the man before him. “You might want to remember that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” He turns his back to the man, not wanting to waste any more of his time and anger on him, and faces Alvarez and Reynolds. “ETA on transport?”

“Some of these idiots leaked what’s happening. Reporters are blocking the way but should be five minutes,” Reynolds replies.

Jeremy looks over to Day and the twins. He frowns. “Is Minyard okay?”

Alvarez says, “He covered for Day and took a nasty blow from Riko’s surprise backup. But he’s been bickering with his brother the whole time so he’s probably fine.” She meets his gaze and raises a sharp brow and he knows she’s asking about Jean.

Jeremy isn’t ready to go into that in any way so he points his thumb towards Day and the twins. “Going to go check in on them anyway.” He pretends he doesn’t notice Alvarez raising her other brow at his obvious retreat.

“Welcome back, guardian angel,” Minyard drawls as Jeremy approaches. It’s a sobriquet Jeremy’s heard many times in his life, but Minyard’s tone is assessing instead of mocking, teasing, or attempted flattering.

“I heard you were doing some guarding yourself,” Jeremy returns.

Minyard continues his even stare that makes him seem at level with Jeremy even though the other man is more than half a foot shorter standing up, never mind that he’s currently sitting on the floor. Jeremy can’t tell if he found what he was looking for but he turns away as Abram approaches, drawling, “You can put your claws away, kitty.”

To Jeremy’s surprise, Abram only rolls his eyes at Minyard as his hands shift back into scarred, tan skin with blunt, human fingers. He wiggles them at Minyard with a suppressed grin that teases at the corner of his mouth. The two must have gotten close while working together. But any amusement quickly vanishes from Abram when he scans Minyard and his eyes narrow at one of Minyard’s injuries that looked like he’d been scored by a blade. It’s still bleeding, the blood tinged the tell-tale dark purple of demonic taint and the stink of ozone lingering on his skin.

“He’s got some of my father’s people on his security detail,” Abram says grimly.

Day goes white-faced at the revelation, the Minyards wear identical grim frowns.

“The Butcher is Kengo’s property, will be Ichirou’s,” Abram expands, no doubt for Jeremy’s benefit. Jeremy is aware that there’s family politics involved between the main and branch families and who they retain. He hasn’t had enough time to memorize which groups belong to which brother and if there’s any overlap. “If Riko’s using my father’s people this brazenly, he’s closer to challenging Ichirou than we thought.”

No one has anything to say in response to the unsettling information, but there’s an air of grim readying. Whatever happens next, they’ll face it. Jeremy looks over to the gathered elite and out further to the van that Gordon and Abby have driven up closer. He sees Boyd walk off, waving, a small bus rolling to a stop.

“Transport’s here,” Jeremy informs.

“Go help them,” Dr. Minyard says. “Better than watching me fix my idiot brother up.”

Minyard starts to make some cutting retort but instead hisses in pain and glares at his brother who doesn’t give away anything other than a stiff mouth suppressing a smirk.

Jeremy pretends his first thought isn’t about returning to Jean with an actual reason and leaves them to it. Dr. Minyard continues to work on his brother’s wounds but Abram stays behind. Jeremy hears him say he can do something about lingering demonic toxins before he’s out of earshot.

He gets back outside to see two nondescript minibuses parked on the green. One is larger the other—Jeremy estimates one having 17-18 seats and the other maybe 12. There are new faces as well, four people in equally nondescript clothing but for a small logo of a private security company that really is more of a mostly above board mercenary group. They’re in pairs, one to each of the minibuses. At the larger one, Reynolds, Alvarez, and Klose are herding the resistant guests inside, and at the smaller one, Abby and Boyd are gently shuffling the wary victims. Jean is at the back of the line, slightly distanced, hugging his arms and wearing the same mostly blank mask and assessing eyes when they’d first met.

Jeremy’s gaze is pulled from staring at Jean to Gordon yelling at the pair in charge of the smaller van.

“What d’ya mean there wasn’t a larger one?” He flings his arm out to gesture to the roof. “One of you going to strap yourselves on top?”

The two just shrug. One of them says, “It’s this or you can ferry them yourselves.”

Gordon looks ready to punch them both out and Jeremy quickly hurries over. He steps in front of Gordon, using his shoulder and arm to keep the tech specialist and his itchy fists back, and flashes a disarming grin.

“Hey, thanks for getting here as soon as possible. The last person can ride with me and Alvarez back.” He resolutely does not look at Jean just a few feet away, but adds, “If he’s fine with it.”

The mercenaries give Jeremy the same shrug they had given Gordon. Jeremy turns to look at Gordon who is still scowling at the mercenaries. He turns his scowl onto Jeremy for a moment before huffing and grunting out, “Whatever,” and walking away. Jeremy turns a bright smile onto the mercenaries and thanks them before going over to Jean.

Jean had definitely overheard and he watches Jeremy approach, stiff as if bracing himself. Jeremy does his best to look non-threatening and smiles. But the suspicion and wariness hardening his gaze doesn’t soften.

There’s a lot Jeremy wants to say, to ask, but he holds it back and settles for a tentative, “Hey.”

Jean just continues to watch him.

“The van isn’t big enough for everyone so if you’re okay with it, would you like to ride with me and my partner Alvarez?” Jean’s gaze flicks to Alvarez. It’s the only lapse in his otherwise unreadable stance. Jeremy caves in and softens his voice, leaning in so no one else can hear them. “Jean. I won’t ask you anything.”

That gets a reaction out of him. A disbelieving huff and Jeremy can see the way Jean nearly rolls his eyes. It’s enough to make Jeremy break out a little smile.

“I won’t ask you anything during the ride,” he amends. “Neither will Alvarez.”

Jean finally speaks, but his tone is bitter. “It’s not like I have a choice, is it?”

“We need to get you to Foxhole,” Jeremy says, “but you don’t have to ride with me. I’m sure Abby has room in the van, or I can swap with someone else from Foxhole. Or I can—”

“I’ll ride with you and Alvarez,” Jean interrupts, and Jeremy catches the start of something pulling at the corner of Jean’s mouth.

Jeremy’s smile widens. “Great. Um. Wait with Abby. I just need to run this by the AD but it should be fine. I’ll come back to get you in just a bit?”

Jean nods and Jeremy puts his hands in his pockets to stop from reaching out and touching him. He doesn’t even know if he wants to hug him or just pat his arm, but either way he keeps his hands to himself, limiting himself to a sharp nod and turning away.

He finds Wymack still talking to the club manager with Walker. When Wymack sees Jeremy approach, he interrupts the red-faced manager with a raised hand. “Look. This place is now part of an ongoing SCD investigation, take it up with my higher ups. Renee, see if the twins have killed each other?” He turns his back on the manager and gives Jeremy his attention. The manager huffs behind him and storms off grumbling under his breath.

Jeremy quickly fills Wymack in and when he finishes, waiting for Wymack to clear the slight change in transport arrangements, Wymack levels a considering gaze upon Jeremy that makes Jeremy want to shift his feet. He doesn’t know what Wymack’s looking for, and just as he’s about to break, ask if there’s something he’s forgetting, Wymack nods. “Alright. Let Abby and Dan know. We’re pretty much set so you can head back after you’re done, just let me know when you leave. I’ll see you back at Foxhole.”

Jeremy returns to the vans to see that they’re just about done boarding everyone. There’s one more person being led into the rescue van and about three more left of the guests. He stalls getting to Jean, detouring to Wilds and then Abby, who clap his shoulder and smile gratefully, respectively. And then it’s either talking to Alvarez or getting Jean first. Jeremy decides on the latter, at least with Jean at his side, Alvarez will keep her completely valid judgment and questioning to her expressive eyebrows until she can get Jeremy alone, which will hopefully not be until late tonight or even tomorrow.

Jean’s watching him as he approaches, arms crossed over his chest.

“So you’re cleared to ride with me. And Alvarez,” Jeremy says, hands going back into his pockets. “We’re about set, so let’s grab Alvarez and get you settled.”

Jean nods and he drops his arms to his sides. As he walks to come in step with Jeremy, Jeremy automatically holds up his arm to place a guiding hand at Jean’s back but aborts the action before he can touch Jean’s disheveled suit. They approach Alvarez who has her back to them as she helps supervise the last of the guests board the larger van. Jeremy clears his throat to get her attention. “Alvarez.”

“Yeah? What’s—” she says as she turns around, and then stops short when she sees Jean at Jeremy’s side. Her eyes flick between them and then to the Foxhole agents around them as she asks, “What’s up?”

“Second van doesn’t have enough seats so he’s going to be riding with us.”

“Is _he_ now?” she says, brows raised.

Jeremy rubs at the back of his neck and can’t bring himself to meet her gaze. “Cleared it with Wymack. We’re good to head back as soon as we’re done here.”

Her eyes slide to Jean who hasn’t said a word nor reacted in any way to indicate this isn’t the first time they’ve met. “Why don’t you head off first then? I’m going to stick around and help Klose and Reynolds. I’ll hitch a ride with them.”

Jeremy can’t hide his surprise at that, sure he’d been in for a drive of pointed looks and baiting statements, but says, “Uh, sure. I’ll see you in a bit then.”

“Drive safe,” she tells him, and then adds quietly, “Despite the circumstances, it was good to see you, Jean. We were worried.”

Jean’s visibly startled and goes to reply but he closes his mouth and simply nods in acknowledgment. With that, Jeremy leads the way to the car that’s parked in the front lot with everyone else’s pricey rides. Jean keeps to a perfect step behind him. When they get to the car, Jeremy holds open the front passenger door for Jean automatically and Jean only hesitates a second before ducking in. By the time Jeremy runs around to the driver’s side, Jean is buckled up and staring out his window, hands clasped in his lap.

Jeremy gets settled and sends Wymack a quick text letting the AD know he’s setting off and puts his phone away after receiving a reply. “It’s about two hours back. Feel free to sleep if you want, or I can put on the radio?”

He sees Jean nod out of the corner of his eye but he doesn’t say anything so Jeremy doesn’t touch the radio and pulls the car out of the parking spot.

It’s all highway back to Charleston and Jeremy keeps his eyes ahead, ignoring every impulse to glance over to see what Jean is doing. He focuses on the road, on the other cars and trucks speeding down asphalt with the sun setting on their right as they continue south. He drives silence and usually that’s fine. But he can’t stop his mind from whirring like an overheated computer, one thing on his mind—the man sitting next to him—and he doubts even if he does put on the radio, it won’t be enough of a distraction. The silence is a burdensome weight in the air, and Jeremy’s struggling to breathe.

It’s twenty minutes later, twenty minutes that feel to have stretched into hours, that Jean breaks the heavy silence. It’s so unexpected, Jeremy doesn’t process the words, but the tightness in his chest loosens.

“Sorry, what did you say?” He risks glancing over, but Jean is still looking out the window so Jeremy can only see part of his profile. He can just barely see a hint of Jean’s reflection in the window, but not enough to read his expression.

“How’s your arm doing?” Jean repeats. His hands are now flat against his thighs, long fingers drumming against the fabric of his pants.

“Oh, uh, it’s fine,” Jeremy replies. He has to clear his throat to get the words out.

They fall back into silence for a few heartbeats, Jeremy’s skin tight and oversensitive. He starts drumming his fingers against the wheel. If he wasn’t already aware of Jean beside him, he’s hyper-aware now. His eyes keep flitting towards the man for a sign of something. Anything. When Jean shifts in the seat, adjusting his bent legs, Jeremy speaks up.

“You comfortable? You can push the chair back, there should be a thingy under the seat. A bar thing. You’ve got insane legs. Long legs, I mean. Or is it cold? I can lower the A/C.” Jeremy knows he’s rambling, but he can’t stop. Jean easing the pressure has Jeremy vomiting words. “Or raise the temp? Or we can turn it off if you want to roll the windows down?”

“I’m fine,” Jean interrupts before Jeremy can continue to mindlessly talk. There’s something about his tone that has Jeremy glancing over longer than is really safe in all honesty. He’s still looking out the window, but Jeremy sees the lilt to his mouth that confirms he hadn’t imagined the slight amusement he’d heard.

“Eyes on the road, angel.”

Jeremy’s eyes snap back to the road, but his mouth’s curved in a smile of his own. When he registers the sobriquet his mouth evens out a bit. He worries his bottom lip before venturing, “I said I wouldn’t ask you about anything”—out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way Jean tenses—“but if you have any for me, I’ll do my best to answer if I can.”

There’s silence again for three exits before Jean asks, “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“What—who I was that night on the beach?”

Jeremy shakes his head. “I had no idea. I didn’t know you were caught up in all this until today.” _When I saw you come out on that stage. And I still couldn’t believe it_. “I mean, I still don’t know who you are other than your name. Unless Jean’s a fake name.”

It’s not technically a question but Jeremy can’t help the rise in pitch that almost makes it one.

But Jean answers, “It isn’t. So the job you’re here for was this?”

“Yes. I’ll be heading home as soon as we nail Riko.”

“Riko never loses.”

Jeremy frowns. “He did this time.”

Jean lets out a singular, hollow laugh. He turns his body towards the door and Jeremy sees his reflection close his eyes but his body never relaxes.

The rest of the drive is in complete silence.

###

They’re in the conference room per Wymack’s texted instructions, a large half-cheese-half-veggie pizza that Jeremy’s gone through three slices of and Jean’s nibbled at one between them when Jeremy gets a call.

“Must be them,” he says, wiping his hands against his shirt before going for his phone. Even though everyone else had left not long after him, there was apparently an accident and traffic had been at a standstill, delaying their arrival by nearly two hours. Jeremy had offered all he could to pass the time and make Jean comfortable, but other than slipping out of his suit jacket and folding it up on his lap, Jean hadn’t moved from the seat he settled into when they arrived.

“Knox,” Jeremy answers.

“Where are you?” Wymack asks. His tone has Jeremy alert.

“Where you told us to be,” he answers. “What happened?”

“Vans were compromised.” He can hear Wymack grimace. “No survivors.”

Jeremy curses and looks over at Jean who’s watching him, brows furrowed just slightly, questioning.

“Everyone else?” he asks, holding his breath. _Alvarez_.

“No one else was harmed, just the vans. Grab the kid and get out. Abram’s sent one of his people to get you both somewhere outside of SCD purview until we find the leak. He’ll call you as soon as I hang up. Get going. Check in when you’re secure.”

Seconds after Wymack hangs up Jeremy’s phone is ringing again from an unknown number. He swipes to answer as he starts moving, connecting the call to his ear piece to keep his hands free, and Abram’s voice fills his ear with directions.

“We gotta go,” Jeremy says to Jean, gathering his things. Jean, though confused, doesn’t fight Jeremy’s ushering. Jeremy throws him a sweatshirt that he thinks belongs to Klose that was left hanging over a chair and, following Abram’s orders, herds Jean through the building until they’re stepping out into the underground parking garage just before a van advertising a plumbing service drives in. Jeremy steps in front of Jean, the muscles in his back shifting in preparation to unleash his wings.

The van’s back door opens and a broad shouldered man who looks vaguely familiar waves at them with the hand not holding a gun. “The things I do for Abram. Get in ‘ere!” he yells. Jeremy’s startled by the thick British accent; it’s completely unexpected.

In his ear, Abram, having heard the yell, says, “That would be Stuart.” Just in case, Jeremy asks the test question Abram had given him while he’d been getting Jean out of the office, and with a roll of his eyes, the man gives the correct response. Only then does Jeremy hurry over and get Jean into the van, and then sit beside him. The van’s on the move as soon as the door shuts. Abram ends the call after saying he’ll get back in touch through Stuart.

Stuart settles in the seats across from them. Jeremy eyes his gun, still in hand and resting against his knee. The only other people in the van are the driver and someone in the passenger seat, all in nondescript uniforms that pass for whatever plumbing company they’re disguised as.

“Stuart Hatford,” the man introduces. His blue eyes, a darker shade than Abram’s but the shape eerily similar, runs over Jean and then Jeremy. “My idiot nephew’s gotten himself involved in quite the mess.”

Several things click in Jeremy's head at the revelation. The son of the Butcher of Baltimore _and_ apparently a Hatford. Jeremy’s only familiar enough with the Hatford name to know it’s a powerful British crime syndicate. To his knowledge, they aren’t spread out beyond the British Isles. Organized crime quite literally runs in Abram’s blood. He briefly wonders if Abram’s been hiding his accent; there hadn’t been a single tell as far as Jeremy could hear.

“What’s going on?” Jean asks. It’s the first he’s spoken up since the drive to Foxhole with any level of firmness.

Jeremy doesn’t want to tell him that everyone else from the auction is dead, but that’s really all he knows right now. “We’re getting you somewhere safe,” is what he says, but he meets Stuart’s gaze for confirmation and the man nods.

“Takin’ you both to a safe house your lot don’t know about. My men will be keeping watch.” Stuart runs his eyes over Jean, considering. “Word is, you’re important to the cast-off bloodsucker.”

Jeremy wants to know just what happened to the vans.

“Riko doesn’t like people taking his things,” Jean answers.

“You’re not a thing,” Jeremy protests. “We’re going to stop him.”

Jean looks over at him, but Jeremy can’t stand the look of pity on his face. He clenches his hands against his knees and has Stuart tell him whatever he can. It’s not much, but he does say that the safe house isn’t far. They fall into silence then, Stuart busy on his phone and Jean staring at the floor. There aren’t any windows in the back of the van, so after taking in the limited interior, Jeremy’s gaze inevitably falls on Jean. He fiddles with his phone, waiting for something from Wymack or Abram or Alvarez, impatient to contact Wymack and heart spiking in anticipation every time the van slows or idles, thinking they’d reached the safe house.

Eventually they do come to a stop. Stuart knocks on the partition between the back and front of the van and receives a patterned knock in return. “Alright,” he says to Jeremy and Jean. He reaches under one of the seats and pulls out a bundle of clothes, tossing them over. “Put those on. I’ll knock four times after it’s clear for you both to come out.” With that, Stuart opens the back door enough to slip out, tugging on a hat, brim pulled low to obscure his face.

The door clicks shut, leaving Jeremy and Jean alone. Jeremy busies himself separating the pile of clothes. Two sets of identical clothes, a shirt and pair of jeans each. He hands over one set to Jean before starting to strip. He’s switched out his shirt and is working on his pants when he notices that Jean hasn’t moved.

“Everything okay?” he asks, pausing just before he stands up long enough to get the waistband over his hips.

Jean’s looking away, the clothes twisted up in his hands.

“Oh, uh, I’ll just face that way. Let me know when you’re done,” Jeremy says. He does so, shifting to sit at the end of the row of seats and turning his body as much as he can to put his back to Jean. Jean hadn’t seemed so hesitant when he’d been on Jeremy’s couch, but Jeremy isn’t about to question the man, or make him needlessly uncomfortable. After a moment, he hears shuffling and the whisper of fabric moving behind him. It takes some finagling being in the back of a van and unable to stand without being half bent in a crouch but Jeremy finishes getting changed with relative speed. The clothes Stuart had provided are definitely hand-me-downs. The jeans are a smidge small, tight especially at around his thighs in a way that Alvarez and Laila would tease him about, and the shirt is stained and stretched asymmetrically at the hem as if it’d been yanked repeatedly. He sits back down, keeping his back to Jean and his eyes towards the van’s back doors, listening to Jean’s movements.

After a moment, Jean clears his throat and Jeremy shifts around to see that the clothes don’t quite fit him either. The jeans are almost comically short for his incredibly long legs. He’s put Klose’s sweatshirt back on but the shirt peaks out at the ends, definitely a size or so too big. His remaining clothes from the auction are folded into a neat pile on his lap.

Jean’s taking Jeremy in just the same and Jeremy sees the way his gaze falls on Jeremy’s straining thighs.

“These are not going to be fun to take off,” he jokes. Then, realizing how that could sound, he flushes and mentally scrambles for a way to not make that sound the way it does, but saying anything else would only emphasize it in the way he completely did not mean. Not that he wouldn’t want to—doesn’t want to, in all honesty. If they weren’t in the situation they were in, if Jeremy had met Jean at a coffee shop or a bar or during a morning run, at a completely innocuous time and place. If Jean wasn’t one of Riko’s victims and Jeremy wasn’t on the investigation. If, if, if.

Jean pulls him out of his chaotic mental feedback loop. “Your arm’s bleeding again.”

“What?” Jeremy looks down and sure enough, blood’s seeped through the bandaging. “Oh. It’s fine. I’ll re-bandage it when we’re settled.”

“Their bites take more than bandages,” he says, with the weight of an intimately familiar knowledge. “Especially if you didn’t sit still.”

Jeremy doesn’t know what to say to that and doesn’t have to as there are four knocks on the van door before it starts opening. Jeremy’s tense until he sees Stuart, who waves them to follow. They step out in the loading area of an apartment complex that is under construction. Stuart, flanked by three of his men, leads them past scaffolding and debris to a dusty stairwell. They climb three flights of stairs and walk down a hallway that’s all bare concrete and plastic sheet coverings lined by doors that need to be sanded and polished. They come to a door that doesn’t look any different than all the others and Stuart pulls a key from his pocket, unlocking it. It opens out into a fairly standard apartment that’s in far better condition than the rest of the building.

Jeremy goes in first to survey the area and Jean trails in after him. Stuart talks to his men for a minute before they disperse. He leans against the door frame. “Bedroom’s over there, bathroom. There’s some clothes and supplies in a bag on the bed. TV works—no cable but there’s some streaming services. Calls can’t be traced here so check in with your lot. I’ve got men at all the exits and patrolling the area. Don’t answer the door to anyone but me. Kitchen’s stocked for a week, but if you’re here longer arrangements’ll be made. Should be all. Anything you need right now?”

Jeremy gestures to his arm. “Vampire bite. I just need supplies.”

Stuart grimaces at the bloody bandaging. “Those fuckers are a pain in the arse. There’s first aid shite with the clothes that should be enough. If not, you can contact me through this number.” He waits for Jeremy to get his phone out and recites a phone number.

Number stored, Stuart lowers his voice with a glance to Jean. “Something happens, there’s a door behind the closet in the bedroom that leads to another staircase. Comes out to the side street. The phone repair shop a block east is manned by my men.”

Jeremy gives his thanks and waves goodbye as Stuart takes his leave. Once Stuart shuts the door behind him, Jeremy clicks the locks shut and double checks them before sighing. He turns to Jean, who’s standing in the middle of the small living room looking around.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to check in with everyone else and treat my arm.”

Jean nods and goes to explore the kitchen. Jeremy steps into the bedroom to make his calls. It’s a sparse room; closet, side table, and a double bed. Sleeping arrangements can be figured out later—Jeremy doesn’t think about sharing. On the bed, as Stuart had said, is a duffel bag, and a quick glance through reveals a few days’ worth of clothes, first aid kit, and some toiletries. Eyeing the closet, Jeremy quickly goes to check and finds the hidden exit. He puts the closet back in place and, done checking around, pulls out his phone to call Wymack.

The call is short and to the point. One of the members from the private security company had been in Riko’s pocket and there’s no telling what he knew and gave up before he outlived his use.. Jeremy’s going to be put on bodyguard duty for Jean, and Abram’s going to be his primary point of contact. The Hatfords are working with Foxhole, off the record. The only ones in the know are certain members of the Hatford syndicate, Foxhole, and now Jeremy and Alvarez. As for Foxhole, everyone else is regrouping, focusing on tracking Riko, and figuring out how and where to keep Jean, their only witness, safe for an extended period of time.

When he finishes with Wymack, as much as he wants to call and check in on Alvarez, he decides to wait until later at night. Wymack’s assured him that everyone is safe and accounted for. He does send her a text to confirm he’s safe and to call later. And then Jeremy goes to deal with his arm.

The first aid kit is pretty extensive, and luckily he finds what he needs. Gathering the items, he leaves the bedroom and heads for the bathroom. He sees Jean lingering by the boarded up window, peering through the cracks. He’d heard Jeremy and looks over, eyes going straight to the medical supplies.

“Do you… I can help,” he offers.

He’s about to say he’ll be fine, but truthfully, it’s his dominant arm that’s injured and it will be a slow and clumsy affair if he tries to fix it up on his own.

“I know what to do,” Jean adds, and the reminder makes Jeremy frown.

But Jeremy relents, “I hate that you do, but I could use your help.”

They huddle into the bathroom. It’s fairly cramped: a toilet, sink, and shower that looks like Jean might be a bit too tall for. Jeremy closes the lid of the toilet and sits down, laying out the medical supplies on the sink counter, then offers Jean his arm.

Jean is careful and focused as he removes Jeremy’s bandaging. The wound had begun to bleed again but there’s no sign of infection or any other problems. Jean works in silence and Jeremy watches him. Being on the other end of being taken care of, Jeremy has nothing to do but watch Jean, catalog his features up close without distraction. He watches the way Jean’s long eyelashes cast shadows against his skin in the harsh bathroom lighting. Observes the fall of Jean’s jet black hair that is in stark contrast to his alabaster skin, the blush of his lips, the saturated red where it’s split. The man before him wouldn’t look out of place in a 17th or 18th century European painting.

To treat the vampire bite, Jean smears a cream that stings more than iodine and antiseptics. Jeremy tosses his head back, biting his lip, fingers digging in his palms at the pain. He swears he hears something and when he looks back at Jean, there’s a curve to his mouth.

“That stuff hurts okay,” Jeremy says defensively.

The curve wavers, but only because it’s fighting against Jean trying to keep his expression flat.

“Yet you’re smiling,” Jean retorts.

Jeremy nearly reaches up to touch his face to check, but he feels the way his face is stretching of its own volition. Instead he gives a one-shouldered shrug and smiles even wider. Jean shakes his head at him.

Jean finishes up, firmly bandaging Jeremy’s arm, and then there’s a moment when neither move. There’s no reason to stay in the tiny, cramped bathroom any longer. But Jeremy doesn’t stand up and Jean doesn’t let go of Jeremy’s arm and move back. Jean gently traces over the bandaging, goes right over where the jagged puncture marks are. Warmth floods Jeremy where Jean’s touching him, traveling along his arm to his chest and swirling in his stomach.

“Jean,” he finds himself murmuring, and doesn’t know what he’s going to say.

But whatever spell is over them breaks with the silence and Jean drops Jeremy’s arm and steps back like he’d felt the warmth building in Jeremy and it had burned him.

“That should be fine now,” Jean says stiffly.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jeremy replies. He’s disoriented by the sudden change in atmosphere and stands up. But Jean is still in the bathroom that is barely larger than a closet and Jeremy stumbles, ends up standing far too close to the inscrutable man. Jeremy is immediately and overwhelmingly aware of the discrepancy between their heights. He’s level with Jean’s neck, could easily lean in and nose at the hollow of his throat, along the jut of his collar bones. The only thing marring the pale expanse of skin is a hint of mottled purple-yellow peeking up out of Klose’s sweatshirt. Jeremy blinks.

“Your bruising should have healed by now.” Jeremy frowns.

“It’s new.” Jean tugs the collar of the sweatshirt up and steps to the side, escaping the bathroom before Jeremy can stop him.

“Jean, wait.” Jeremy follows Jean into the kitchen where Jean grabs a bottle of water.

“It’s just bruising. A few days old.” He gulps down a quarter of the bottle and seeing Jeremy standing there, sighs and sets the bottle down. He reaches for the back of the sweatshirt and pulls it over his head. Jeremy glances to the side when the action pulls the shirt underneath up, flashing stomach and fine dark hairs. But once the sweatshirt is off and Jean readjusts the old t-shirt, Jeremy hisses in sympathy at the bruising all along Jean’s arms and creeping up from under his collar. As Jean had said, they do look a few days old, and there’s nothing else to do but wait for them to fade on their own at this point. They line up with when Jeremy had least seen him.

“Are those from when you escaped out the window?” Jeremy asks.

Jean frowns for a moment before he realizes what Jeremy’s talking about and then he shakes his head. “Is that you asking what I am?”

“No. And you don’t have to tell me. Do you want to take a shower or something? You didn’t really eat the pizza before we had to, well… I can fix up something to eat and we can see what’s there to watch and settle in for the evening. It’s been quite the day.”

Jean narrows his eyes suspiciously but he tugs at the borrowed shirt and his shoulders drop. “Stuart said there are clothes on the bed?”

“In the duffel.” Jeremy confirms. “Take your time.”

As Jean leaves for the bedroom, Jeremy investigates the kitchen. There’s pretty much just non-perishables from canned foods to frozen dinners. But here’s also a loaf of bread, strawberry jam, a carton of milk, and a dozen eggs; and Jeremy finds a box with tea, instant coffee, and sugar packets as well. Appliance-wise, there’s a kettle, microwave, and gas stove. It’s good enough for a few days.

Jeremy sorts through the frozen dinners and settles on two chicken and rice meals that have the same heating instructions and preheats the oven before wandering around to wait for it to get ready.

He can hear the shower running and tries not to imagine Jean in there, instead busying himself checking out the TV. As Stuart had said, there are a few streaming services by way of a Roku. Jeremy pulls up Netflix and sees it’s logged into some account that had been in the middle of a variety of shows and movies by whoever had been using the safe house in the past.

He scrolls through looking for something, but nothing is of interest so he leaves it for Jean to decide on if he wants to when he’s out of the shower. He checks his phone, but other than Alvarez confirming that she’ll call him when she can later, there’s nothing. He should charge it, though. The duffel had phone chargers so Jeremy nips back and plugs his phone into the outlet by the TV, turning his phone off of silent so he doesn’t miss anything, just in case.

Nothing else to distract him, he returns to the kitchen and settles for staring at the oven. Thankfully, it’s done preheating in the next minute or so and he puts in the frozen dinners, sets the timer, and tries to figure out what to do with his time now.

Ten minutes in of him going through everything in the kitchen in unnecessary detail, he hears the shower shut off and a few moments later, Jean’s padding into the kitchen dressed in sweatpants that are too short for his legs and an oversized shirt, running a towel over his hair. If Jeremy ignores the mottled bruising on his arms and around the wide neck of the shirt, Jean looks far too like something Jeremy should not be thinking about.

“Hey, so there’s basically just canned or frozen. I threw some chicken and rice dishes in the oven and they’ll be ready in about twenty. Got a preference between lemongrass basil or sweet and sour?”

“Either’s fine. Um. I can watch the food if you want to shower?” Jean wraps the towel around his shoulders. His hair is damp and ruffled, sticking out in odd directions.

Jeremy clears his throat. “Yeah, thanks.”

He hurries out of the room, grabs a set of clothes, and heads into the bathroom before he can think longer on the sight of Jean all soft and homey.

The bathroom is steamy and damp from Jean’s shower and Jeremy is quick and efficient in getting clean, mindful of his arm. He finishes and dresses in baggy shorts and a shirt that’s a bit snug around his shoulders. When he steps out, Jean’s still in the kitchen, digging through drawers. The dinners are steaming on the countertop.

“Hey, those actually smell pretty good.”

Jean looks up but when he sees Jeremy, he glances away again. “Trying to find silverware.”

“Oh, I think I saw them in here.” He goes over to a drawer on the other side of the stove than Jean and exclaims in victory. “Aha! Here.” He grabs two forks and spoons, handing Jean one set.

Jean says he has no preference but Jeremy sees him eye the lemongrass and basil chicken so he takes the sweet and sour. They move to the living room and settle on the couch, Jean plastering himself at one end. Jeremy settles down with a cushion between them and picks up the remote.

“Preferences?” he asks, though he’s already expecting either a shrug or noncommittal hum.

But Jean surprises him, tentatively asking, “Would you want to watch the show from last time?”

Jeremy smiles. “Yeah!” He quickly finds the baking contest. “Uh, I think we were on this episode?”

Jean nods and Jeremy hits play.

He expects Jean to be a silent observer like last time, but when Jeremy makes a comment, Jean answers with one of his own. Jeremy does his best to not react, but he smiles into his chicken that tastes surprisingly good, and carries on.

They’ve finished eating, and Jeremy’s quietly happy to see that Jean’s eaten more than half the bowl, when Jeremy’s phone starts ringing from where he’d left it by the TV. He gets up and sighs in relief seeing Alvarez’s name.

“I gotta take this. You can keep watching,” he says, and heads into the bedroom to take the call.

“Thank god,” Alvarez says once the line connects. “Hey.”

Some of his lingering background anxiety eases hearing his partner. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah, just. Fuck.” Alvarez breathes out heavily. “It wasn’t good, Jer. Like really bad. Definitely a message. Make sure he doesn’t see the news because it’ll be everywhere—fucking bloodhounds. Honestly, thank god the second van was too small. At least someone is okay. How is he?”

Jeremy peeks out of the bedroom to Jean curled up on the couch, absorbed with the show. His eyes are light and his mouth isn’t smiling, but it’s relaxed, soft even. It would be easy to imagine they aren’t in an apartment building under never-ending construction hiding from a murderous mafia vampire.

“He’s doing okay for now.” He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it.”

“What were the chances,” Alvarez agrees. “But I definitely understand where he was coming from. Keep him safe, we’ll get that bastard, Jer.”

“You stay safe too.”

They end the call after that and Jeremy takes a moment before he returns to Jean. Jean looks at him questioningly but Jeremy asks, “Who won the technical?”

###

They get through half of the season when Jeremy notices Jean starting to flag, and he’s pretty much ready for bed himself. He turns off the TV and Jean doesn’t even notice for a second until he blinks and rubs his eyes.

“Bedtime, I think,” Jeremy teases.

Jean yawns and curls up against the couch.

Jeremy chuckles. “C’mon. Bed’s not that far.”

Even though Jean looks a few blinks away from sleep, his body tenses and Jeremy’s confused for a second before he realizes what is likely to be the problem. “You take the bed. I’m going to make up something on the floor.” He stops Jean before he tries to argue. “I’ve slept on worse and I’m not budging from this, Jean. I’d take the couch but I can’t really trust you to not somehow escape out a window again.” Or if he finds the emergency exit behind the closet.

There’s a flash of something that might be embarrassment on Jean’s face. “They’re boarded up this time,” he mumbles. But he gets up and trails after Jeremy into the bedroom.

Jeremy goes into the closet where he’d found extra sheets earlier and sets about making up a make-shift bed on the floor between the bed and the closet. Jean moves the duffel to the floor and stands to the side of the bed, watching. When Jeremy’s done the best he can, Jean hands him both the pillows on the bed.

“I don’t need them,” he says, when Jeremy tries to hand one back. “If you’re making me take the bed, you’re taking the pillows.”

Jeremy doesn’t argue in face of Jean’s determined glare. And the extra pillow will make the next, hopefully few, nights on the floor easier. They get ready for bed and Jeremy finds a semi-comfortable position on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He hears Jean move around on the bed until he seems to settle. Jeremy closes his eyes and takes a few deep, relaxing breaths.

“Wake me up if you need anything,” he says, his voice almost too loud in the dark.

Jean makes a noncommittal noise that Jeremy finds himself smiling at.

“Good night.”

It takes a while, but Jeremy eventually dozes off to Jean’s quiet breathing.

###

“Pizza or ravioli?”

It’s been four days since the auction, since Jeremy and Jean have been holed up in the Hatford safe house. While Jeremy’s gotten updates every morning and night, there hasn’t been news on Riko. The only notable thing to have happened was Foxhole being attacked long after Jeremy and Jean had evacuated, but nothing of value was taken or tampered with. It had been a search and they didn’t find what they were looking for.

What they were looking for has been binging reality cooking competitions and getting sick of frozen dinners and canned soup.

Jean hums in thought. “What kind of ravioli?”

It’s been frighteningly easy to temporarily ignore the background anxiety of the situation, especially since there hasn’t been much information. It’s a dangerous lull. He’s still constantly worrying and thinking about Alvarez and everyone else, but it’s a steady hum in the back of his mind. With the exception of Jean’s restless nightmares that Jeremy pretends he doesn’t know about since Jean does his best to be quiet when he wakes up, it’s too easy to imagine Jean as someone not under his protection, especially in the mornings when they’re quietly preparing coffee or tea as they wake up and figure out breakfast, or when they settle on the couch and work through the entire Netflix catalog of the _Great British Baking Show_. After finishing the season they’d first started with, Jean wanted to watch from the beginning of what was available, and Jeremy doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be able to watch the series again without thinking of Jean when this is all over.

They end up going for the pizza for dinner and, when it’s done, Jeremy brings it over to the living room where Jean’s already cued up Netflix, ready to continue where they’d last left off earlier in the afternoon when Jean helped Jeremy redress his wound. It’s been healing, slowly, but well.

Jeremy gets settled and they dig in, but shortly into the episode, Jean takes a large bite and starts coughing, thumping his chest. Jeremy automatically reaches over to smooth over Jean’s back, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton shirt, the movement of his muscles and the gentle bumps of his spine. “Careful. You okay?”

He’s still rubbing Jean’s back when Jean’s settled and clears his throat. “Yes. Thank you,” he says, looking down. Jeremy takes his hand away, and it’s much harder than it has any right to be. “Could you get me some water?” Jean asks.

“Yeah, sure. Be right back.”

Jeremy’s ducked into the fridge, wrestling a bottle of water from the packaging when he hears Jean pad into the kitchen behind him. “I said I’d be right back,” he laughs as he finally frees a bottle. He’s barely halfway turned around, reaching to hand over the bottle, when he finds himself on the floor.

Pain blooms belatedly at the back of his head and he blinks against encroaching darkness. He registers Jean standing over him, his expression sad, regretful. He hears a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he sinks into black.

###

Jeremy wakes up with his head pounding. He sits up and finds himself on the couch, head having been cushioned with a pillow from the bedroom and a blanket draped over him now pooling in his lap. The last thing he remembers is being in the kitchen, getting Jean a glass of water. He looks around and frowns to see early morning light filtering through the boarded up windows.

“God, what?” he groans. Slowly it comes back to him. Jean.

Stumbling to his feet and ignoring the way his head spins, Jeremy searches the apartment. There’s no sign of a struggle. In fact, everything’s been cleaned up and put away. He runs into the bedroom and stares at the moved closet revealing the hidden exit. “Fuck.” He has to find his phone.

His phone is on the coffee table though he could swear he’d left it charging by the TV, but he doesn’t think too long on it and grabs for it, in a rush to call Abram. He pauses at the notifications on his screen. The first is a news headline describing the massacre of 25+ people in two vans and a message written in bodies and blood and gore promising a specific agency will wish for death if something is not returned. The second is a text from Alvarez belatedly warning him about news media being sharks. Both notifications are from hours ago. Dread and understanding sinks Jeremy’s stomach. He hadn’t heard his phone go off, but Jean did.

When he unlocks his phone, it’s confirmed. The notes app is open and there’s a note he definitely didn’t write staring back at him time stamped a half hour after the notifications.

_J’ai vécu sentir le sapin. Vous étiez un instant du soleil._

_I will always think of you when it rains._

Jeremy curses. He can understand bits of the French but the English pierces his heart. He has an idea of where Jean’s gone, but he isn’t about to let him get away with this goodbye.

###

Jeremy’s glad to see Alvarez and returns her hug, squeezing tight, but their reunion is short, his mind on Jean. After calling Abram, there was immediate movement and Jeremy was quickly brought to the rest of the team, who have been holed up in a beachfront house that the owners don’t use for half the year.

Jean had managed to slip past Stuart and Abram’s people. While he’d used the hidden exit, he didn’t come out at the side street where he would have been seen and caught. Instead, he’d managed to break through the wall and somehow scaled the building before presumably flying away. There were claw marks around the opening he’d made, and the side of the building looked like the same claws had dug into concrete as he climbed up, before the dents stopped all of a sudden part way up and around the building.

Thankfully, there were cameras aimed at the building and even though Jean is mostly shadow, Jeremy watches in awe as he sees him shift—it’s too hard to tell into what in dark, but he’s still humanoid, Jeremy thinks—and effortlessly climb up the building as if it were horizontal, before he jumps off and glides out of the camera frame on large wings.

Gordon’s working on looking through surveillance cameras of neighboring buildings to see if he can track Jean’s movements. Jeremy doesn’t ask how he’s doing that since he highly doubts they’ll be playing by the rules for this. On another monitor he has an automated search running through all sorts of databases—from missing persons to presumed deaths and birth records—to see if he can find Jean based on all the information Jeremy was able to provide, which was barely anything, and a digital facial composite that can estimate how a person might look younger or older. It’s a reach, and the search is probably a crap shoot, but you never know. At least Jeremy felt somewhat useful while he was answering questions. Now he’s just standing around, waiting, worrying.

Hatford people are also using their resources—Abram’s been on his phone almost non-stop issuing orders or getting updates from his uncle. Abby, both the Minyards, and Walker are the only ones not in the safe house. Abby and Dr Minyard are out getting supplies. Walker has contacts—there was no explanation of who or where or how—and Minyard’s accompanying her since they aren’t risking anyone being alone right now. Jeremy can’t begin to imagine who Walker knows that might have information, but he’ll take any chance at finding Jean, and subsequently Riko, as soon as possible. Every minute that ticks by only reminds him of how much of a head start Jean has, how long he’s been back in Riko’s clutches. He doesn’t think about what state Jean could be in other than alive.

“There’s a hit,” Gordon says, he sounds surprised.

Jeremy is the first to rush over and look at the screen. The search programs had found a short article. It’s in French, and what had triggered the program was one of the two photos: a school portrait of a boy who was both familiar and not. It’s next to a slightly blurry photo of the same boy, a few years younger, and a man and woman who are presumably his parents.

“I can run it through a translator,” Gordon says, already typing away.

“I can translate,” Abram says, stopping him. Jeremy steps aside as Abram scans the article and paraphrases for everyone else. “Residents of Marseille woke to smoke Sunday morning. An out of control electrical fire. Philippe and Sylvie Moreau survived but their son Jean Moreau, aged thirteen, succumbed to his injuries and smoke inhalation on the way to the hospital. No other houses were affected. Investigations found no sign of foul play.”

“But he survived,” Jeremy says, stating the obvious. “The Moriyamas faked his death and kidnapped him?” _He was **thirteen**_.

“Not kidnapped,” Gordon says, voice grim. He’d started looking into the Moreaus the second Abram read their names. “Looks like Phil came into some major money and spent large chunks of it over a couple of days a few weeks before the fire. There was still a considerable amount left over and they’re living pretty well. Riko acted like he owned the guy? He just actually might.”

Jeremy is aware that there are terrible, selfish people in the world. He has seen and interacted with some of the worst in his line of work. Philippe and Sylvie Moreau are not even close to some of the people Jeremy has helped put away, but if he ever happens upon them, he’s afraid of what he’ll do to them.

Alvarez rests a hand on his shoulder and another wraps around his hand, and it’s only then does he realize his nails are cutting into the skin of his palms and his blood is starting to burn.

“But none of this helps us find him,” he says after a few controlled breaths.

“No, but this does.” Gordon draws attention to another screen that is windows of various camera footage. Some are at traffic stops and others at store fronts and residences. As Jeremy watches clips being looped, he sees that Gordon’s managed to piece together Jean’s relative movement. He pulls up a different window, a map, and drops pins that shows a path from the Hatford safe house through the city.

Day frowns at the screen. “He’s headed for the port?”

Reynolds types away on her phone before saying, “There’s a party on a boat. Socialites, minor celebrities, ugh _influencers_.” She wrinkles her nose. “Party boat. Not the first place I’d look for a human trafficking vampire with a superiority complex.”

“Any other information you got on this boat?” Wymack asks.

Reynolds continues to tap on her phone. “Just drunk and barely clothed people—oh god what is he _wearing_? Can’t see the name of the boat anywhere but definitely looks like the port. Nicky, Matt, help me look through stories.”

“I’ll see if Renee’s found anything,” Dan says.

Gordon has Jeremy help him look through security footage to see if they can pinpoint where Jean’s headed. Jeremy braces himself against the back of Gordon’s chair and the desk to look over the tech analysts’ shoulder at the numerous tiled video feeds. After what feels like hours staring at grainy footage, they at least determine that Jean is at the port. But they can’t find where exactly. Reynolds, Klose, and Boyd haven’t had any progress on finding the party boat either and they’re not even sure if that’s where Jean—and Riko—are.

“Incoming,” Alvarez says from where she’s been keeping an eye on the door and surrounding cameras of the house. Everyone tenses, readying themselves in case they’ve been found out, but after a moment, Alvarez relaxes and says it’s Abby, the twins, and Walker.

The doors open and the four come in. Abby and Dr. Minyard look unharmed, laden with bags of food and other supplies. Walker and Minyard are a little more roughed up; Walker’s contacts did not seem to be entirely friendly. The twins minutely acknowledge him while Walker and Abby greet him with smiles. When Walker walks by him, heading to report to Wymack and Wilds, Jeremy catches the faintest hint of blood and ozone.

Abby comes to Jeremy, hugging him and distracting him from Walker, looking him over. “How’s that bite?”

She takes him aside while everyone takes a break to get a bite from whatever food she and Dr. Minyard brought, and Jeremy obediently shows her his arm. She hums and seems pleased at the rate it’s healing and the lack of any sign of infection. She cleans his arm, and applies the healing ointment and a new bandage. Walker and Minyard relay what they’d been able to find out.

“There’s movement at the port,” Walker starts, and Wilds fills her in on what Gordon and Reynolds had discovered. Walker confirms, “The party is a cover. They’re loading something—crates, boxes, a few vehicles. My contacts didn’t know when exactly, but the ship will be gone by midnight tonight.”

It’s a bit past noon. They have less than twelve hours. Jean’s been gone for nearly twenty already.

Gordon sets to searching for ship manifests and scheduling at the port to try and find the name of the ship since Walker’s contacts didn’t know it. Jeremy is increasingly frustrated as he sees time tick by. Counts how long Jean’s been gone. If only Jean hadn’t seen his phone. He should have turned off his news notifications but he’s an idiot.

Alvarez notices his sullen, angry silence. She rubs the back of his neck and tugs at his hair to get his attention. “Get something to eat, Jer.” It’s not a suggestion and he doesn’t care. He’s useless right now and needs to do something. He gets up and Alvarez gently pushes him towards the kitchen.

The kitchen is empty, but he isn’t alone for long as Walker walks in shortly after. She stands at his side while he stares blankly at the available prepared foods and snacks.

“You should eat something,” she says.

Jeremy barely hums in acknowledgment.

“You’ll need the energy to get Jean back.”

“We don’t know which ship he’s on,” Jeremy finally speaks, bitter. And they won’t be rushing off as soon as they find out either. Even Foxhole has to follow some protocol, especially with such a high-profile, hushed up case.

“It’s the _Nevermore._ I know where it’s docked.”

Jeremy’s head snaps to Walker’s quiet revelation.

“Seth will find it soon. But we don’t have time to follow protocol if I had told Wymack or Dan.”

Jeremy doesn’t need any convincing. He only glances briefly to the hallway that leads to the main living room, and hopes Alvarez doesn’t smack him too hard later. “What’s the plan?”

The plan is to sneak out the back of the house—they can completely bypass the main living room where everyone else is and get out into the backyard from the kitchen—and take Reynolds’ car since she leaves the doors unlocked and the key inside.

Jeremy grabs a few energy bars, munching on one and stuffing the rest in his pockets. He already has his gun on him and Walker doesn’t mention needing to gather anything as she leads the way through the house.

They make it to the sliding back door when Minyard catches them as they try and leave. Jeremy prepares for him to stop them, to alert the others on this incredibly stupid plan. But he and Walker simply stare at one another, silently communicating, until Minyard sighs heavily and rolls his eyes.

“One hour,” he says, and turns around and heads back to the others without another word.

“Let’s go,” Walker says, and Jeremy follows. They make it to Reynolds’ car and Walker’s stepping on the pedal after Jeremy’s barely shut the door behind him.

###

Jeremy doesn’t know what party boats Reynolds’ seen—and Jeremy can’t claim to be familiar with them himself—but the _Nevermore_ is not what he would consider a party boat. It’s a cruise ship; large, multi-storied, glossy, and loud.

“If Seth hasn’t already figured it out, Andrew will tell them in fifteen minutes,” Walker says.

Jeremy nods. “How do we get in?”

Walker beckons him over and heads away from where drunk party goers are walking on and off the ship, taking photos and drinking and chatting. A few couples are making-out and look very close to falling off the dock. Jeremy follows her until they come to where uniformed men are loading cargo onto the back of the ship. One man notices Walker and pales. He finds a moment to leave the others and sneaks his way over.

Up close, Jeremy notices fresh bruising and the way he keeps his distance from Walker. His eyes keep watching her hands.

“The next pallet we load,” he says, rushed, quiet. He points out the pallet and Walker smiles at him, thanking him for his assistance. The man only pales further and scurries away. Jeremy looks questioningly at her, but there will be time for answers later.

They get to the pallet and slip under the canvas covering. There’s been a space carved out that just barely fits the two of them. Both of them are silent, Jeremy tense and waiting for something to go on, for this to be a trap. But eventually, there’s shouted orders and directions and machinery and the pallet is being moved. Jeremy braces himself against the surrounding cargo as the pallet is slowly lifted and raised. It’s not a fun journey. Finally, they thud against something solid and are not in motion. Walker checks out of the canvas and deems it clear. They crawl out into a dimly lit space full of large cargo.

“This way,” Walker says and Jeremy follows her, hand ready on his gun and scanning their surroundings. They make it to a door, but it’s locked. Before Jeremy can do or say anything, Walker presses her hand to the lock.

“Walker—” Jeremy cuts himself off at the sharp burst of ozone and heat. When Walker pulls her hand away, the lock is melted. The door opens easily.

Jeremy stares gape jawed. Walker smiles at him, her eyes flash black—sclera and irises—between one blink and the next. He has a few answers and more questions. Foxhole is quite something.

They walk down corridors, going towards the thrum of music. Eventually they get to a staircase and climb up. Walker deals with the next locked door and they step out into what appears to be the main deck. An incredibly inebriated man is struggling to light a joint, surrounded by two other men and women. He manages to light it and offers Walker and Jeremy to join, but the two pass and move on.

The party is concentrated around the pool. A DJ set up by the jacuzzi. Jeremy doesn’t see Jean, Riko, or any of the eerily robotic Moriyama henchmen.

“They won’t be with the party,” Jeremy says. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the noise. Someone pushes right past him and he barely avoids being splashed by whatever fluorescent drink in their hand.

“There are three more floors,” Walker says. “Split up to cover one each and take the last one together. Do you have your phone?”

Jeremy nods and they quickly find the door to the stairwell that goes to the rest of the decks. Walker makes quick work of the lock with Jeremy standing guard and they slip inside, rushing up the stairs. The door that leads out onto the second deck isn’t locked—either they are that rushed or confident. They agree to text once they’ve cleared the floor or found something, and if the former, to meet at the third floor’s entrance.

Jeremy continues up the stairwell as Walker slips out onto the second deck. He gets to the door of the third floor and it too is unlocked. He steps out into a carpeted corridor, a rich deep red, the decor dark and gothic. There’s a lot of raven motifs in the hung paintings and furnishing details. The hallway stretches in both directions, and there are no alcoves or doors as far as Jeremy can see. No cover.

Jeremy listens intently, but hears nothing other than the slightly muted party two floors down. He makes a decision, going down the shorter path that turns off into a corner sooner. He sticks to the wall, steps careful, gun in hand. When he peeks around the corner, it’s another stretch of hallway, but about halfway down there’s a gap. Maybe a door? He’s about to continue on when a door swings open from the gap and he immediately backs up and flattens himself to the wall, holding his breath. He waits, listening, but the carpet mutes footsteps so he can’t tell if they’re coming closer and they aren’t talking. He doesn’t even know how many of them there are.

Jeremy looks around, debates on running back to the stairwell. He looks for something and catches movement on one of the paintings on the wall—the reflection in the glass. There’s just one, and he’s coming this way.

Jeremy watches the reflection and readies himself. The henchman doesn’t see him coming in. Jeremy moves quickly, doesn’t let him make a sound of alarm, incapacitating him with a sharp blow to the back of his head using the butt of his gun. He drags the man to the stairwell and quickly updates Walker, wincing at the missed calls and texts from Alvarez and Wymack and even Abram. She replies that the second floor appears to be empty and is on her way to him.

As he waits for Walker, Jeremy, thankful for the Moriyama underlings adhering to their strict dress code, gags the man with his tie, and uses his suit jacket to restrain him for when he wakes. Jeremy digs through the man’s pockets and divests him of his gun, ammo, phone, and a key card. He turns the phone off and crushes it beneath his shoe, then carries the man up a few stairs and shoves him to the side. By then, Walker’s joined him and he quickly fills her in.

“Seth’s figured it out,” Walker says. She’d gotten similar attempts at contact from her coworkers. “Wymack is in communication with the Director.”

Something about her tone has Jeremy suspecting that’s not everything. “What’s the rest of Foxhole doing?”

She grins. “They’re on their way.”

“Let’s check out that room. I’ll cover you.”

Jeremy leads the way back down the hallway towards where the man had come from. When they get to the corner, he checks the reflection in the painting again before looking around. The hallway is empty. They creep towards where the man Jeremy dealt with had come out from, and come to a wide-set of double doors. A plaque identifies the room as the main dining hall. The doors are sleek dark wood, flush to the floor and ceiling, with gold handles. There are no windows. A card reader blinks red at the side.

Jeremy presses his ear to the door, but either the doors are too thick or there’s no movement nor chatter going on inside. It’s impossible to tell.

If they’re lucky, the room is empty. If not…

Walker motions to the rest of the hallway and Jeremy nods. Foxhole is on the way. There’s still more of the ship to investigate.

Leaving the dining hall behind for now, Jeremy continues down the hallway, ears alert and eyes intent. The dining room must be huge because the wall stretches on for yards before it comes to a break. Looking down the corridor, Jeremy sees a series of doors against the opposite wall of the dining hall. Cabin rooms?

There’s still no sight of any guards so Jeremy motions to Walker before getting close to the first door. There’s a slot for a key card at the handle. Jeremy presses his ear to the door. He can hear something, though it’s muted. It almost sounds like clicking metal. Weapons?

The distance between the doors has Jeremy thinking the rooms are only about 100-150 square feet, if each door leads to a single room. He brings out the key card and Walker nods. She stands to the side, knives drawn, as Jeremy tries the card. The light turns green.

Jeremy carefully opens the door, and when nothing and no one says anything from the other side or comes out after a moment, he peeks inside. The room is dark, but the light from the hallway casts enough for Jeremy to see shackled legs. He opens the door completely and Walker covers his back as he steps inside. Six pairs of eyes look back at him.

The room is a modified prison cell. Against each of the three walls, one prisoner is chained by their wrists and ankles. They’re all bruised and beaten, dressed in barely more than rags. Dirty looking strips of cloth are tied around their mouths.

Jeremy tucks his gun away and immediately goes for the closest person, a woman with blood-matted hair and a scar across her neck.

“Shh, we’re here to help. I’m Jeremy, from the SCD,” he says, trying to calm her as she struggles backwards away from him. “I’m going to remove the gag, okay?”

She’s still wide-eyed when she hesitantly nods. The cloth is knotted firmly and Jeremy ends up needing one of Walker’s knives to carefully cut it off.

“What’s your name?” Jeremy asks gently.

“Mari,” she answers, voice raw and hoarse.

“Mari, we’re going to get all of you out. My team is on the way. How many of you are here?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he assures her. He turns to Walker. “Can you do your thing with these cuffs?”

“Yes. But I can’t keep it up for too long if there are many of them. Will your light work?”

“I don’t want to risk burning anyone,” Jeremy says regretfully. His energy bursts are pure heat and the chains are thick, sturdy metal. He’d burn them before the chains melted.

“I’ll do as many as I can,” Walker says and they get to work. Jeremy removes gags and Walker blasts the shackles off in controlled bursts. The room quickly begins to stink of ozone. They quickly get the other two free, and have them stay in the room while Jeremy and Walker check the others.

“We’ll come back for you,” Jeremy promises. They use a stray piece of a broken shackle to keep the door open as they move onto the next.

The next room is identical to the first, however there are no captives, only waiting chains. They move quickly down the corridor. Of the next five doors, three are empty, and the other two have three captives each in similar states to the first. One man—a boy, really, he can’t be long out of his teens—has a broken leg and leans against another captive.

Walker barely manages to free the last captive and Jeremy knows she’s used up her demon abilities for the time being. Walker stays with the last group, while Jeremy goes back to the others and gets them all into one room. It’s cramped, but it’s not going to be for long.

“Can you get them out?” Jeremy asks Walker. “One of us needs to be there when the team shows up.”

Walker nods. “And you?” By her expression, she already knows.

“I need to find Jean,” he confirms.

“Jean?” Mari speaks up. Her eyes widen. “He was with you.”

“You know him? Do you know where he is? Where he could be?” Jeremy asks.

Mari shakes her head. “One of the guards was talking about re-training when Jean came back. R _—he_ was so angry.”

“The big room,” the boy with the broken leg says. “It’s where he has us…learn to perform.” He looks down at his leg. “And where he keeps us when we fail.”

“There are more of you in that room?” Jeremy asks. The boy nods. “Okay. Thank you. Let’s get you all out of here.”

Jeremy takes the lead and Walker brings up the rear as they walk through the hallways back to the stairwell. The guard Jeremy had taken out is still unconscious, thankfully. The party is still going on, which will be perfect cover to get the others out. Mari leads the way down, after thanking Jeremy, and the rest of the captives follow her. Walker lingers only long enough to say, “Be careful.”

“You too.” Jeremy returns. And then Walker disappears down the stairs and Jeremy is alone.

He goes to the dining hall and stands before the doors. The key card turns the red light green. Gun in hand, and blood sizzling under his skin, Jeremy opens the door and peers inside.

At first he only sees tables and chairs spaciously laid out. Large chandeliers illuminate the room. It looks like a regular fancy restaurant.

And then he sees the cages.

The tables are set around an open space, at the center of which are three metal cages hanging from the ceiling. Inside are a number of people, at least five per cage. Jeremy steps into the room and, temporarily ignoring the shocked and curious gazes of the imprisoned captives, looks around, but sees no guards. And then his eyes fall upon a cage at the front of the room, behind a table that is lofted on a raised platform. The cage is gleaming silver and resembles an ornate birdcage—narrow and tall—and inside it, is a man sitting with his knees drawn up and head ducked, uneven black hair falling over his folded arms.

Jeremy closes the door behind him and rushes over to the three cages closest to him, even though everything in him is drawn to the solitary birdcage.

“I’m here to help,” Jeremy says, when he reaches the first cage. There doesn’t seem to be a lock anywhere, the cage walls seemingly bent closed. Jeremy looks at his hands. “Stand as far back as you can. I’m going to warp the bars.”

He puts his gun away and grabs hold of two of the cage’s bars. The captives huddle back. Closing his eyes and focusing, Jeremy gathers heat to his palms. He holds back the fire, keeps it as close to his skin as he can. He feels the metal being to soften under his palms and pulls them apart. He’s panting and sweating when he lets his fire die, but he’s managed to pull the bars just wide enough for them to slip out. The metal is hot, though. Jeremy looks around and grabs the thick table linen off a few surrounding tables.

“One by one, be careful,” he says, wrapping the linen around the hot bars in the hopes of damping some of the heat. Once the first person gets out safely, Jeremy moves onto the next cage. By the time he’s created an opening in the third cage, he’s exhausted, but he wipes the sweat off his face. Those that have been freed are helping the others out, so Jeremy runs to the golden cage.

He’d felt a steady gaze on him as soon as he’d begun working on that first cage, but he didn’t let himself look over. Now, he meets disbelieving gray eyes as he leans heavily against the cold metal.

“What are you doing here?” Jean asks. He’s gotten to his feet and Jeremy has to crane his head up to look at him.

Jeremy smiles. “Getting you out.” Gripping the bars of the cage, Jeremy channels all his strength, his anger, his worry, his relief and burns. The metal bends, and when he’s made a wide enough hole, he falls to his knees, breathing hard.

He feels hands on him, helping him up to his feet. “You—” He says something else that sounds like French.

He’s still breathing heavy but Jeremy manages to stand on his own and looks Jean over, satisfied that he seems to be okay. “We need to move. Do you know where Riko is?”

Before Jean can answer, an alarm starts blaring and the dining hall doors swing open.

Jeremy yells for everyone to find cover as he grabs Jean and ducks down behind the elevated table. Peering out the side, he watches Moriyama guards—five of them—burst in. Someone screams. Jeremy raises his gun and starts shooting.

As he takes cover behind the table once the Moriyamas return fire, Jeremy tries to locate the other captives. They’ve all managed to hide behind tables near one another in clustered groups. Jeremy motions to Jean.

“I’ll cover you, use the tables to get to the others.”

Jean nods and Jeremy resumes shooting at the Moriyamas. By the time he and Jean make it to the others, he’s managed to take one down, and gets another in the leg. But one bullet nicks his arm, and another grazes him a little too close to his head. When he wipes at his temple, a streak of blood comes away on his hand.

“Jeremy,” Jean says, but Jeremy ignores the worried and concerned look. He surveys the remaining four guards who are quickly approaching. He reloads his gun and looks to Jean.

“Know how to use a gun?” he asks.

Jean stares, eyes wide. Jeremy presses the firearm into his hands.

“When you get out the door, go right. Go down the hallway and around the corner. First door on your left, take the stairs down two floors to the first floor. Find Renee Walker. Five-five, pastel rainbow hair, white blouse and light wash jeans,” Jeremy tells Jean. “When I say go, lead the others. Okay?”

“But you—” Jean starts.

“Okay?” Jeremy insists.

Jean’s mouth is a flat line but he nods. His grip on the gun tightens.

“Okay.” Jeremy says. Clenching his hands, he draws on every bit of energy he has. He yells, “Go!” as he jumps out over the table and blasts a streak of fire at the guards. He hits one directly in the face, the man screaming in pain before he drops motionless. Jeremy wastes no time in charging forward and knocking Guard 2’s shooting arm out of the way so her shot goes up into the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jean lead the others around the fighting and out the door.

Guard 3 tries to shoot at them, but Jeremy tackles him from behind, grappling for his gun. He gets a knee to his gut for his effort, but manages to wrestle the gun free, knocking it away. A gunshot scorches the carpet next to them and Jeremy rolls off, diving under a table as more shots follow. He grabs the legs of a chair and stands up, throwing it at Guard 2, who still has her gun. She breaks the chair, but it leaves her wide for Jeremy to grab her arm and twist it back, hearing the pop of dislocation. She drops the gun and Jeremy quickly picks it up, shooting her through the heart before turning around and shooting at the last two guards. He’s too slow though—Guard 3 shoots at Jeremy while Guard 4 ditches his gun and dives at Jeremy, fangs out.

Jeremy avoids the bullets, but he’s off balance and barely has time to brace himself with one arm, shooting with the other. He gets Guard 4 somewhere in the stomach and the vampire bodily collides into him. They both go crashing into another table, the air knocked out of Jeremy at the impact as the table breaks under them. He uses the gun to pistol-whip the vampire and gets him off of him.

Coughing, Jeremy climbs out of the wrecked table. He doesn’t have time to catch his breath; Guard 3 seems to have run out of bullets and has his fangs out, blood lust clear in his blackened eyes. Jeremy shoots at him, but after two shots, the clip runs out. Thinking quickly, he dodges the last guard’s attack and grabs for a piece of debris—a long, jagged piece of a broken table leg. Brandishing it as a weapon, Jeremy engages the vampire head on, using it as a staff. When he finds an opening, he tries to stab the vampire, but the vampire manages to grab the other end of the table leg and it breaks into two. The vampire ends up with the longer piece and tosses it away. Jeremy’s piece is little more than a few inches.

The vampire snarls as he charges at Jeremy. He tackles Jeremy to the ground and goes for his neck. Jeremy holds him back, just barely, and they grapple on the floor, but the vampire manages to keep Jeremy down.

“I’m going to enjoy feeding on you,” the vampire leers over him.

“Not happening,” Jeremy grits back. He draws the last of his strength and builds heat in his palms where he’s pressing back against the vampire’s chest. The vampire grits his teeth as he begins to burn, but only presses harder. He moves a hand to Jeremy’s neck and Jeremy uses the split-second reprise to grab the little piece of broken wood and thrust it at the vampire’s chest. The vampire has a moment of shock to spit up blood. Jeremy pushes him off; he’s dead when he hits the ground.

Breathing heavy, Jeremy gets to his feet. The alarm is still blaring and he can hear the vaguest sound of gunshots. He’s running on fumes; if more come to check on this group, he’s not going to survive.

He checks his phone only to see that it had gotten a bit too banged up in the fighting and is useless.

Jeremy sags against the wall, an upturned table offering temporary, flimsy coverage. He’s pretty sure that last blow broke a rib or two. Breathing—which he can barely do as it is—hurts. He might have punctured a lung. He just hopes Jean got out. Backup was on the way; this was going to come to an end. Jeremy just may or may not be alive to witness it. _Just let Jean be free_ , he thinks, prays.

But he’s not going to sit down and die. If he wants any chance of survival, he has to keep moving.

He gets to his feet, and it’s a struggle, but he manages to push off the wall. The boat feels like it’s shaking. He makes it a few steps before there’s a loud blast and he loses his balance, falling to the floor. Overhead, he sees one of the exuberant chandeliers rock and sway dangerously. He sees the fixture begin to break. There’s no strength in his legs to get up. He braces his arms over his head and closes his eyes, waiting for impact.

Impact does not feel like being crushed by metal and glass. And it comes from the wrong direction. He’s thrown backwards, and when he opens his eyes, it’s to gray. Gray like stone warmed by open sunlight.

“Jean,” he whispers. Jean cracks a fanged smile and Jeremy comes to his senses. “Jean, why are you here? You were supposed to get out.”

“I did,” Jean says. “I came back when everyone else was safe.”

“You needed to stay safe,” Jeremy argues, but he can’t stop himself from leaning into Jean’s touch when the other man brushes Jeremy’s hair from his face.

“Looks like it’s my lucky day.”

Jeremy’s gaze snaps to behind Jean where a vampire strolls in, fangs extended. Jean twists around, and Jeremy catches the way his expression shutters. This isn’t just another grunt. Not to Jean.

“You always were my favorite,” the vampire leers. He breaks off the leg of a chair before stepping over it. Towards Jeremy, towards Jean.

The vampire’s shoes crunch over broken glass. He licks his lips. “I bet you’ll taste good.”

Jeremy knows he needs to get up, to roll away, to blast the vampire with magic, fire his gun. He has to do something. But he’s running on empty, out of bullets, and barely holding onto consciousness as it is. He needs Jean to get out.

Jean stands up and Jeremy would like to think he’s going to make a run for it, but he’s not surprised when Jean simply gives Jeremy his back, standing between him and the vampire.

“Jean, no,” Jeremy coughs, losing his breath at the pain in his chest. Definitely punctured a lung. “Run!”

But Jean stands his ground, his hands clenched at his sides. He’s so still. In the ruin around them, he could be a statue.

“We always had a good time,” the vampire continues. “You ever have a go with him, angel? He makes the best sounds when he can’t fight anymore.”

Jeremy tries to get up, but his vision swims.

“Now”—the vampire waves the chair leg—“step aside, _Jean_. When I finish with him, I’ll deal with you. We can take our time.”

Jeremy was going to make sure if his time was up, so was this vampire’s. The monster wasn’t going to _look_ at Jean ever again.

“No.” Jean’s voice is quiet, but it carries like thunder. “You aren’t going to touch him. You aren’t going to touch me.”

Transformations are rarely a thing of beauty. Animal shifters break and contort: organs relocating, skin breaking, bones realigning. Dryads’ skin peel and flake as bark grows from the tissue. Even angels, as picturesque as they’re depicted, unleash their wings in cracking bones and ripping skin and tearing muscle; backs literally breaking open.

Jean’s skin turns gray, not a gray of ill-health, gray like stones washed smooth by a clear river, deceivingly soft. Alabaster to smoothed granite. His fingers shift and stretch into claws, his legs bend at his shins—a new joint elongates—and he grows even taller, seven feet at least. His feet break through his shoes, clawed like his hands to scale heights, his weight resting on the balls of his feet. His ears elongate, almost fae-like, and horns grow from the sides of his head ending in chiseled sharp points. A tail cuts out of his jeans, lengthening and curling gracefully around his legs, sharp as whip. And then his wings—form, is the only way to put it. It’s as if the stone of his skin turns liquid like cement, pours out of his back, and an invisible mold shapes it into large bat-like wings, spread out, easily clearing a five foot wingspan, shadowing Jeremy like a protective awning.

  
  


* * *

_And soon all the gargoyles did magical things:  
they gurgled and coughed and shook out their wings.  
Then, together, the angels and gargoyles took flight,  
and they soared through the clouds on a blustery night._

_(Pilkey, 29-32)_

* * *

Gargoyle. Jean is a _gargoyle_. Jean is _the_ gargoyle. How did he not recognize those eyes?

Jean launches himself at the vampire, clawed hands stretched out. The vampire is too stunned to react in time, and Jean claws across the vampire’s chest, deep gouging marks. The vampire hisses in pain before he snarls and launches himself at Jean. But Jean is a towering force of power made of stone. The vampire swings the chair at Jean, who blocks it with his arm. The wood shatters and Jean doesn’t have a mark on him. He drives his fist at the vampire who jumps back, but Jean is already stepping forward—his endless legs giving him an impossible stride—and swinging with his other fist. It connects, a gruesomely satisfying crunch of bone, the vampire’s head swivels too far to the left as he flies backwards into broken furniture. He doesn’t get back up.

Jeremy stares in awe at Jean’s back. When Jean turns around, there is a moment of hesitation, of wariness on his face. His tail curves around his thigh, not completely unlike an uneasy cat’s.

“That was…” Jeremy breathes. “Wow, Jean.”

Some of the wariness eases off Jean’s face, his tail relaxes. The ship vibrates and rocks again.

“We need to move. Can you stand?”

“With a lot of effort,” Jeremy admits. Jean is over immediately and helps him to his feet, but his legs are still weak and he feels light-headed. He’s not going to be able to walk far, especially through fighting.

Jean realizes this. “Sorry,” he says, before arms go around Jeremy’s back and under his knees and his feet are no longer on the floor. His arms automatically wrap around Jean’s neck to steady himself. It’s an odd sensation—the feeling of stone but the warmth of life. “Hold on.”

And then Jean’s carrying him out of the dining hall. He runs as if Jeremy weighs nothing in his arms, down the corridor, wings tucked in tight behind him but still scoring the walls on either side, knocking paintings down in his wake. He hurries down the stairwell and they step out into chaos.

The first floor is a mess of broken furniture, smoke, fire, and bodies. Jeremy catches sight of a lioness tearing through three Moriyama underlings, Boyd and Alvarez covering her with gunfire. Abram and Minyard are back-to-back taking on a group surrounding them; Minyard armed with knives not unlike Walker’s and Abram’s forearms shifted to their demonic form. Walker, Reynolds, Gordon, and Klose are keeping any stray Moriyamas from getting off the ship. He sees flashes of angel fire and finds Day and a jaguar breaking through a wall of bodyguards where Riko, a bleeding gash across his face, is snarling.

Jean hurries them through the chaos, Walker catching sight of them and covering Jean as he makes his way over. He barely hears Walker direct them to where Abby and Dr. Minyard are with the rest of the former captives.

Jeremy’s barely conscious when he feels himself being carefully lowered. Someone’s worried about blood loss. Jeremy reaches for Jean. The gargoyle leans over him.

Jeremy strokes down Jean’s wing with a feather-soft touch, barely putting any pressure on the fragile-looking appendage. He knows it’s not a delicate thing—has witnessed what power it has—nevertheless, he feels like it could shatter under a crass touch. And Jeremy wants to be gentle. Jean’s long overdue gentle.

Jean’s wing trembles just slightly under his touch, and Jean exhales softly in surprise. Jeremy strokes down the hard-smooth wing again. Jean’s wing presses into his hand.

In the background, the sound of fighting starts to die off. Jean is saying something to him, but it doesn’t sound like English. It could very well be another language, but Jeremy’s struggling to process much of anything, his brain slow and sluggish like when he’s a blink away from sleep. He registers Jean’s hand on his face and leans into the touch, nuzzling Jean’s palm with his cheek.

And for the second time in 24 hours, Jeremy falls into unconsciousness—this time with a smile on his face.

###

Jeremy’s discharge from the hospital is celebrated with a party at Wilds and Boyd’s place. It’s also his and Alvarez’s goodbye party. Their flight back home is the next morning.

He’d been hospitalized for a week, unconscious for a day. Blood loss, overexertion, and dehydration. He missed out on clean up, but Alvarez was oh so kind enough to bring him all the paperwork he needed to do. Considering he wasn’t allowed to leave his hospital bed, there wasn’t much else to do outside of visiting hours.

After he’d woken up and was cognizant, he was filled in on what happened in the end. Riko Moriyama was dead. Though not by Foxhole or Hatford hand. Stuart, like his nephew, had been working with other organizations to deal with Riko. Stuart somehow brokered a deal with the head of the main Moriyama family: Riko’s older brother, Ichirou. All that Stuart had apparently said was that Ichirou saw how far his brother had strayed and how much of a risk he was to the rest of the family, to Ichirou’s empire. Ichirou was not pleased to learn that the Butcher’s demons had been used without his approval. Nathan Wesninski was found gutted in his home in Baltimore a few days ago. The only reason Foxhole, Jeremy, and Alvarez still have jobs, despite the media circus and barrage of broken rules, is because Riko and Nathan are no longer a concern.

There were casualties on their side too, but by some miracle, Jeremy had been the worst of it. Some of the Hatfords had some vampire bites and gunshot wounds, and Foxhole agents were bruised and beaten up here and there, but nothing they weren’t used to, nor particularly life threatening. Jeremy and Alvarez also had two weeks of PTO when they got back to L.A.

He’d been visited by everyone but the one person he wanted to see most. He knew Jean was okay. He’d been treated and questioned like the other people they’d managed to rescue.

But if Jean wanted to see him, he would have. Jeremy wouldn’t blame him for wanting to get away from all of this. To never have to see reminders, to start fresh somewhere else, far away.

The party is fun and Jeremy enjoys the food, since he can’t enjoy the drinks with his medication. Foxhole knows how to party, that’s for sure. But he’s still healing, and it’s not long before he starts flagging, the pain meds wearing off and re-awakening all his aches and injuries.

They’re sent off with hugs, handshakes, nods, and promises to check-in when in the area again. Jeremy falls asleep in the car as Klose drives them to the apartment. Alvarez had already packed for the both of them while Jeremy was in the hospital, and heads straight to bed after making sure Jeremy was good for the night. Jeremy did one last look through before getting ready for bed.

When he gets out of the shower, he doesn’t notice the figure sitting on his bed until he looks up from drying his hair.

He startles, ready to shout for Alvarez, thinking it’s a straggling Moriyama, until he registers just who it is.

“Jean,” he says. “Oh my god, I thought—Scared the shit out of me.”

Jean winces apologetically. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to.” His gaze rises before it flicks away and he clears his throat, and Jeremy remembers he’s only in a towel.

“Give me just a second,” he says, and quickly throws on boxers and a t-shirt. He gets tangled in his boxers and nearly trips in his haste, but he doesn’t want to risk Jean disappearing. When he’s done, he turns around and sighs in relief to see Jean still on his bed, looking politely away. Jeremy clears his throat and walks over. He sits down carefully on the bed, turning his body and bending his knee in the space between them.

“Hey,” Jeremy says.

“Hello.”

“How, uh, how are you?” Jeremy flounders.

Jean’s mouth quirks and then it drops as his eyes trail over Jeremy’s body. He’d have to have seen the healing scars and stitches. “I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine. Heading back to L.A. in the morning.”

Jean nods. “Yes. I wanted to… Thank you.” Jeremy goes to tell him there’s no need, but Jean holds his hand up and stops him. “No. _Thank you_. You saved my life. I have the option for a life again. And I apologize for knocking you out.”

“Well, you saved mine, too. I think we’re even,” Jeremy replies, when Jean doesn’t stop him.

Jean huffs. “I am in your debt.”

“No.” Jeremy shakes his head. “No debts. I don’t want you to owe me. All I want from you is for you to live. To do whatever makes you happy. Wherever that may be.”

Jean is silent at that for a moment before he says, “I will try. And you as well. I hope you live long and well, Jeremy. I should let you sleep. Have a safe journey home.”

Jeremy doesn’t want Jean to leave, but the man is already getting up and going to the open window—which Jeremy knows had been closed when he went to shower. “Jean,” he says. “If you’re ever in Los Angeles, feel free to find me.”

Jean nods and Jeremy watches him crawl out the window. His wings are fully formed by the time he leaps off and flies into the night.

###

The first day back to work, Jeremy’s fielding gossip and talk about Foxhole and South Carolina. Some of the rumors he knows the folks at Foxhole will have a lot of fun over. When he gets the chance, he escapes to his usual coffee shop and might have taken his time before returning.

When Jeremy returns to the office with his second coffee, Alvarez latches onto his arm and starts pulling him towards the bullpen instead of the conference room where they both have a meeting in five minutes. He thinks it’s about a new probationary agent or consultant or something—the details were vague, and Jeremy’s been not-moping on Laila and Alvarez’s couch during his two week vacation.

Alvarez has a smile on her face that has Jeremy suspicious.

“What are you up to?” he asks, halting their progress.

“What? Me? Nothing,” she says, grinning wide and completely unbelievable.

He narrows his eyes at her. “Whatever it is, we’re going to be late for the meeting.”

“It’ll be fine.” Her grin is starting to creep Jeremy out. “There’s someone here you’re going to want to see first.”

Jeremy frowns in confusion, but lets her tug him to the bullpen. There’s only a few people around, the area mostly empty. They turn into the quartered area where their desks are.

There’s someone sitting at his desk. They’re swiveling gentle from side-to-side in his chair, their back facing him. Jeremy frowns. He’s not expecting anyone, and from Alvarez’s reaction it’s not anything bad or an emergency. He has no idea who could be here to see him.

And then the person swivels around and Jeremy is only peripherally aware of his coffee dropping to the ground, splashing everywhere on linoleum, his shoes, and the hem of his pants. Alvarez jumps back and there’s laughter after startled concern. Someone asks where the paper towels are. But Jeremy just has eyes for the man covering his mouth in surprise that quickly turns into amusement.

Jeremy blinks, shakes his head. He looks down, registering hot coffee soaking his socks inside his shoes and grimaces. Someone had found paper towels and tosses them across the bullpen and Jeremy sets to mopping up the floor and his shoes. He registers someone coming over and crouching down to help.

His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth as Jean helps him mop up the space. When they finish, they stand up and Jeremy still doesn’t know what to say. He just takes Jean in.

Jean looks good. There are no new bruises or cuts or injuries, even the bags under his eyes have eased. He’s still pale—going to burn like hell under the Californian sun—but there’s a healthy flush to his cheeks. He looks less like a marble statue, less otherworldly, less untouchable. He’s here. Jeremy keeps his hands to his sides.

He got a haircut, the sides buzzed short and the top slightly longer and wavy, just barely falling over his face and asking for a hand to run through it. His clothes look new, too; slim-fit jeans tucked into leather boots and a button down with the sleeves rolled up. He fiddles with the visitor pass hanging from the lanyard around his neck.

“Sorry about your coffee,” he says when Jeremy is still just staring slack-jawed.

“I—uh, no. Don’t worry about it.” Jeremy stares in disbelief. “You’re here.”

Jean shrugs, glances away and lets go of his visitor pass to run a hand through his hair like he’s still not used to it. “We didn’t get to finish that season.”

Jeremy laughs. He doesn’t know what’s going on or why Jean’s here but he is and he’s safe and he’s _smiling_. It’s small, barely there, but it’s _there_. “We should fix that. And watch the others too.”

Alvarez pops her head between them, eyes twinkling. “I hate to cut this short—and remind me to bribe Henderson to get the security footage of that because A+ reaction, Jer—but we have a meeting to get to.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Right. Um. You can wait here, use my desk. It probably won’t take too long? I—how long are you here for?”

Jean’s mouth quirks and he glances to Alvarez who is still sporting that shit-eating grin. “I’m here for that meeting. Wymack put in a word for me. I’d probably be a better fit at Foxhole, but the only good thing I ever experienced on the East Coast is in the West.”

Jeremy can’t hold himself back. He reaches out, waits for Jean to step back or avoid his hand, but Jean slides his hand into Jeremy’s, a solid, steady, warm weight. “Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

Jean squeezes his hand and nods.

When they get to the conference room, walking shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing with every step, and Alvarez texting rapidly on her phone to likely update Laila and Klose—the two had gotten close and have been regularly keeping in touch—Rheman takes one look at them and rolls his eyes in unsurprised amusement. Jeremy’s assigned to help Jean get his IDs and clearance and passcodes sorted out, and show him around. After that, Jeremy’s given the afternoon off and Jean doesn’t officially start until the next day.

The first place they go to is the beach. It’s a bright and clear day.

* * *

_. . . And the gargoyles beheld wherever they roamed  
that the souls of the lost weren't really alone.  
Each one had an angel, each one was protected,  
and each one was cherished and loved and respected._

_And so it is true with the gargoyles this day,  
for all of the angels who love them have stayed.  
Together they wait until days become nights,  
to embark on their dark and most glorious flights._

_(Pilkey, 49-56)_


End file.
